


Bard of Pain

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)



Series: The Three Lands [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Assassins, Braille, Character(s) of Color, Courage, DAISY format, Dungeons, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Gods, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, MENA character(s), Male Friendship, Mentors, Original Fiction, POV Character of Color, Prisonfic, Romantic Friendship, Rulers, Sadism, Self-Discipline, Soldiers, Spies, Torture, War, celibate, don't need to read other stories in the series, gen - Freeform, male character(s) of color, original gen, torturers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10528086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson
Summary: "The beginning of the end for him (or so it seemed at the time) came in the moment that he stepped into the shadow of Capital Mountain and was assaulted by a stranger."In the battle-weary lands of the Great Peninsula, only one fate is worse than being taken prisoner by the Lieutenant: being taken prisoner if youarethe Lieutenant.As the world's most skilled torturer struggles with his change of fortune, he finds that his fate is intertwined with the destinies of an idealistic army commander, an affectionate prisoner, and a protégé who reveres the Lieutenant's art . . . but is on the wrong side of the conflict.Boilerplate warning for all my stories.This story is also available infree Braille and DAISY editions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> > "This [suffering of the artist] is perhaps what we should expect when we consider that a work of creation is a work of love, and that love is the most ruthless of all the passions, sparing neither itself, nor its object, nor the obstacles that stand in its way."
>> 
>> —Dorothy L. Sayers: _The Mind of the Maker._

  
**_Bard of Pain_ 1**   
**THE DARKNESS**   
  

**CHAPTER ONE**

The beginning of the end for Quentin-Andrew (or so it seemed at the time) came in the moment that he stepped into the shadow of Capital Mountain and was assaulted by a stranger. 

During the first seconds of the attack, all that Lieutenant Quentin-Andrew could feel, in the form of warmth in his chest, was unadulterated pleasure. He had been attacked like this many times during his seventeen years serving the Commander of the Northern Army, and the results had always been the same. It never ceased to amaze Quentin-Andrew how many men continued to adhere to the rules of fair fighting even when it became clear that such rules were of no interest to their intended victim. And once the assailant had been captured . . . 

The warmth spread to Quentin-Andrew's extremities. The Commander had given him standing orders that he could deal with such men in the manner that he preferred, as long as the necessary information was obtained from them. Few men, it was said, fell into the Lieutenant's hands without ending their lives pleading for the mercy-stroke. 

Unfortunately, Quentin-Andrew was about to become acquainted with one of the handful of men in the Great Peninsula who scorned the rules of fair fighting. Moreover, the man had friends. As the first moment of pleasure faded, Quentin-Andrew became aware of this fact and turned his mission abruptly from capture to escape. It was too late, though; too late even to weigh the benefits and costs of calling for help, for the first action his captor took, upon seeing him disarmed and secured, was to clamp his hand heavily over Quentin-Andrew's mouth. 

And thus Quentin-Andrew, who until this day had been the most valued soldier in the Northern Army, found himself pinioned and surrounded by soldiers of the Southern Army. 

These men were part of the desperate remnant of what had once been the armies of the Great Peninsula's two southern lands of Koretia and Daxis. Even now that he was their prisoner, Quentin-Andrew could not help but view them with northern contempt, as the soldiers who were too weak – too civilized – to fight by the methods that had allowed his Commander to capture all of the Great Peninsula except for the area surrounding Capital Mountain, which now lay under siege. 

A dozen soldiers stood before him; the Southern Army had taken no chances in planning this capture. One, however, had stood apart from the fight, fingering lightly the dagger in his hand: a young man, half of Quentin-Andrew's age. He lacked the hard muscles of a warrior, yet he watched the scene with great care, as though memorizing valuable information. Some part of Quentin-Andrew, deep in the cold darkness that had filled his mind for many years, flickered with curiosity, and a deeper part still flickered with recognition. But the part on the surface – the only part that anyone had seen for seventeen years – revealed no sign of interest as the young man stepped forward. 

He was dressed in civilian clothes, as were the other soldiers, who had been forced to venture dangerously close to the Northern Army's camp. Nothing about his clothing revealed whether he was an army official, like Quentin-Andrew, or simply a bottom-ranked soldier who had been placed in charge of this hazardous mission. Quentin-Andrew hoped it was the latter. With an army official, he would be constrained by further orders from the Commander, but a bottom-ranked soldier could be questioned at length, using any methods Quentin-Andrew chose. 

It had not yet occurred to Quentin-Andrew that his time of questioning had reached an end, and that a new questioning was about to begin. 

The young man paused a moment to push back his cloak. The weather was mild by northern standards, but here in the south it was wintertime, and southerners dressed themselves accordingly. The young man tilted his head to the side, his gaze fixed upon Quentin-Andrew. Once again, a faint recognition flickered in Quentin-Andrew's darkness. 

Suddenly the young man smiled and touched his heart and forehead in greeting. 

"Randal son of Glisson," he said in a low voice, by way of introduction. His accent was that of a Daxion. "It is an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. A man of your talents has never before come my way." 

So disappeared any lingering hopes Quentin-Andrew had held that he would not be recognized, but those hopes had never been great. An army in its final gasping breath, stretched to its limits in the days before its greatest battle, does not waste a dozen men to abduct a minor soldier. And ever since the time that the Commander had released Quentin-Andrew from his duty of leading the patrol that watched over the outskirts of the camp – his other duty had become too time-consuming – he had been known to have a habit of wandering alone late at night, perhaps as an inheritance of his father's blood. The Commander had once remarked, in half earnestness, that such a habit would prove to be the Lieutenant's undoing. 

Now Quentin-Andrew coolly, and without haste, ran his mind through the alternatives available to him. Dozens of northern soldiers were within shouting distance, but they all knew the Lieutenant's voice, and none of them, he was aware from experience, would come near him except with great reluctance. His old patrol unit was out tonight, guarding the camp against intruders such as these; a single whistle would bring them running. Or would it? Eight years had passed since the Lieutenant had been their official, and that had been before most of the long, bloody tasks that the Commander had assigned him. Such tasks were done for the benefit of the Northern Army, but even so . . . The Commander himself. There was no question that he would risk his life to save the Lieutenant. These days, the Commander trusted no other man with his thoughts, which had grown steadily darker over the years, until Quentin-Andrew found it difficult sometimes to remember the light-filled man to whom he had pledged his loyalty at the beginning of the war. The Commander would come; but the Commander was away from the camp tonight, supervising the final stages of the siege. 

The hand dropped from Quentin-Andrew's mouth. He had one moment in which to make his decision, and then the moment was lost as a gag was stuffed into his mouth. 

The young soldier, Randal, was still watching Quentin-Andrew closely. Now, as though Quentin-Andrew had spoken, he said softly, "No one will come, Lieutenant. No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction." 

The words burned him like fire. He knew, without having to think further, into whose hands he had fallen. For a minute he remained still, feeling the bonds around his arms; then, with a sudden jerk, he pulled himself free of his captor and lunged straight toward Randal's dagger. 

Randal raised the dagger with a short laugh, preventing Quentin-Andrew from impaling himself upon the blade. He waited until Quentin-Andrew had been secured once more by the soldiers before he said, "You won't receive release that way, Lieutenant; you know better than that. We'll give you over to the Jackal's fire in time, but not until you have given us what we need. And should you delay your gift . . ." Randal's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Well, Lieutenant, I don't have your skills, but I can promise you with honesty that, by the time you encounter the Jackal's fire, it will seem cool in comparison to what you have endured." 

o—o—o

The chamber was round, like the sun or the moon; it was deep, fringed by tiers of steps; and it was quiet, but for the sound of one man speaking. To the south side of the chamber, brown-robed priests sat listening and nodding their heads occasionally. The north side was filled with boys, whispering to each other and nudging one another and occasionally throwing pebbles when they thought that the priests weren't looking. 

One boy stood apart from the others. He was of ten years and was dark-skinned. This was not remarkable in itself, for a few of the other boys bore skin that revealed unmistakably that their families had emigrated from the south. This boy, though, was not seated with the orphan boys whom the priests cared for. He stood in the galleries above the southern seats, surrounded on all sides by visitors who jostled each other to have a first view of the special guest. 

By craning his neck, the boy could see through a gap in the crowd to the opposite balcony. The northern balcony, normally reserved for the Chara and other noble guests, was filled with an overflow of younger priests on this important occasion. The chiefmost of the balcony's inhabitants, though, was not a priest but an ordinary lesser free-man. He was formally dressed with a soldier's sword clipped to his belt and a black tunic enlivened only by the silver honor brooch that bound the neck-flap fast. He was taking no notice of the whispering of the younger priests or of the heightened excitement of the boys below him. His gaze was fixed upon the center of the room, where the High Priest of the Unknowable God stood, speaking as he held up a crystal bowl toward his unseen God. 

The boy opposite, noting the man's unwavering attention, turned suddenly and began squirming his way through the tight-packed crowd, eliciting a few curses from the visitors who were trying to listen to the High Priest's speech above the murmur of the audience. Even the boy, though, could not fail to hear the brisk tones of the man who was accustomed to speaking before large audiences. 

"We who worship the Unknowable God," the High Priest was saying, "know the God by many names. Here in Emor, in the land famed for its justice, we call him the Lawgiver, while his human representative is the Chara, our ruler who serves as High Judge of Emor and its northern dominions. We center our belief, though, on the knowledge that the Unknowable God shows different faces in different lands, and that each of these faces, though they may seem strange to us, is worthy of honor and worship." 

The boy reached the back of the crowd. His way to the staircase was blocked by a Koretian merchant who had travelled over the border for this special occasion, bringing not only his wife but all six of his children. They huddled protectively together amidst the strangers, and it was clear that they would not give way to allow the boy passage. The boy frowned, momentarily frustrated, and then turned toward the window shedding light onto the balcony. As though it had been his plan all along, he worked his way back to the window and stood on tiptoe, staring out at the scenery before him. 

Below in the sanctuary, the High Priest said, "We are privileged today to enjoy the company of a man who, for many decades now, has been famous not only in the Three Lands of the Great Peninsula, but who is also respected by the inhabitants of the mainland. To some, he is Master of the Koretian Land, ruler of that great nation that was born a thousand years ago. To others, he is High Judge of Koretia, upholding the law-system which Emor bequeathed to Koretia several decades ago. To still others, he is High Priest of Koretia, directing worship toward the seven traditional gods and goddesses whom the Koretians have served over the centuries – those gods who, as he himself has said, are but different faces of the Unknowable God above all gods. But to us who serve the Unknowable God directly, he will always be known simply as the Jackal, the man who has taken on the burden of holding the powers of the Jackal God and who speaks with that god's voice." 

The boy, still standing by the window, turned slightly, as though preparing to work his way back through the crowd. Then he gave a shrug and continued to stand on tiptoe, peering through the window. From where he stood, in a sanctuary under the shadow of the Chara's palace, he could see the tiled rooftops of the neat houses in the capital city of Emor, surrounded by the lofty walls that had protected the city for a thousand years. The House of the Unknowable God was built high, though, and the boy could see over the walls to the autumn-brown fields and the black border mountains to the south of the city. At the feet of the mountains were dark shapes: tiny villages in the Emorian borderland. The boy looked at one of the dark shapes for a moment before turning his gaze back to the harsh slopes of the mountains. 

The High Priest raised his voice to be heard above the rising murmur of the impatient crowd, saying firmly, "The Jackal can remain with us only for a short time today, as he is on his way to meet with the Chara to discuss matters concerning our two lands. Indeed, he has shown great courtesy in pausing here during his journey so that we might ask him to join the Chara in signing the Edict Against the God-Cursed, in which both rulers agree that they will not take under their care or into their employment any man or woman whom this house has declared to be under the curse of the Unknowable God. This edict was first proposed many years ago . . ." 

The boy turned away from the window finally; his toes were aching from being stood upon. He paused as he brushed up against the Koretian merchant. In the manner of Koretian men, the merchant was wearing a dagger. The boy felt something pass through him then, too ill-defined to be a sensation – nothing more, perhaps, than the potential for a feeling. Then all of his thoughts were concentrated on reaching the front of the crowd. 

This time he succeeded. The visitors were cheering like a chorus of trumpets, and the people on the balcony barely noticed the boy as he slithered his way to the railing. He looked down into the central circle of ground below the balconies. There, next to the high priest, was the guest all had come to see. 

To his disappointment, he found that the Jackal, instead of facing south toward the priests, had for unaccountable reasons chosen to face north toward the boys. This had the effect of paralyzing the restless orphan boys. They glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, obviously fearful of doing anything that would attract the god-man's attention to them. Even the young priests in the gallery above were now still. Only the soldier leaned forward with a smile on his face, remaining oblivious to anything but the spectacle taking place below. 

What little that the boy could see of the Jackal was disappointing. His tunic was as black as the soldier's and contained no gold border indicating his rank; his posture was upright, but his hands were relaxed by his sides. He did not even wear a blade, like the other Koretian men in the room. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that the people in the chamber fell silent in an effort to hear him. 

"I am honored to receive such an introduction from the High Priest of Emor," he said, "but I fear I must correct, ever so slightly, one point he has made. He says that I hold the powers of the Jackal God. This is true, but at most times, as now, those powers lie so deep within me that I am nothing more than a man, with a man's limitations. This fact explains why I have hesitated for many years to sign the Edict Against the God-Cursed. If I, who am both man and god, cannot always know which men in these lands are cursed, how can the wise priests here hold this knowledge? The rite of cursing has been used for great evil in Koretia's past; I was not happy to learn that the priests of the Unknowable God had chosen to revive this practice. 

"The High Priest has assured me, however, that the rite is not intended as a sentence of exile, as its name would suggest, but rather as a way to impress upon those who have strayed from the gods' ways how serious their crimes are. Included in the edict is a provision that any man under this curse may ask to have the curse lifted, and the priests must do so if they are given even the slightest proof that the man has attempted to turn his face toward the gods. Without this provision, I would not have signed the edict; with it, I do so with great hesitation, and only because, as High Priest of Koretia, I have the authority to lift curses. Yet I am growing old, and when I leave the Land of the Living I hope that those who remain here will remember that we are all in need of the gods' mercy, even the most honorable of us." 

The boy wondered whether it was a coincidence that, at that moment, the Jackal tilted his head upwards. In the balcony above, the younger priests fluttered like nervous birds who have caught sight of a cat. Only the soldier, unflustered, continued to smile, placing his fist against his heart as though he were saluting the Koretian ruler with his sword. 

The orphan boys had taken this opportunity to exchange excited whispers amongst themselves. They froze suddenly as the Jackal's gaze returned to them. When the Jackal spoke again, the boy in the balcony was astonished to hear a note of amusement in the ruler's voice. 

"Some of you here," he said, "asked me earlier what will happen when I die. Will I become part of the Jackal God, living in the Land Beyond? Or will my spirit continue to dwell in my successor, he who holds the title of Jackal after me? Or will I perhaps live as a hillside jackal, making my lair in the Capital Mountain?" 

The boys spluttered with giggles, and several of them reached over to nudge the boy who had evidently asked this question and who was now turning bright red. He was smiling as well, though, for the Jackal's voice had held no mockery in it. 

"The truth is," said the Jackal as the boys' laughter diminished, "I have not been granted knowledge of what will happen to me after my death. I do not even know whether another man will take on the powers of the Jackal after me, though I trust that the kinsman whom I have chosen as my heir will serve as a just ruler." 

There was a pause as the Koretians in the chamber murmured approvingly. The Jackal continued, "I do not know what will happen to me, and though I hold the powers of the god of death, I have been granted only glimpses of what occurs to men after death. What I have seen is hard to translate into human words." 

The room had fallen utterly still. Even the soldier looked sober now, and several pairs of the boys – wine-friends, perhaps – had drawn closer to each other. One of the orphans who was sitting by himself, a young boy of perhaps seven years, chose this moment to lift his face and look up at the balcony where the older boy stood. 

There was an exchange of looks, signifying little in the older boy's mind. The suggestion of a smile fluttered upon the younger boy's face. Then he looked down quickly, as though fearing that the Jackal had seen this frivolous exchange. 

The Jackal was continuing to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as though recounting light anecdotes from his travels. "Since words cannot explain fully what I have experienced, I will instead borrow images from the Koretian religion, for the images, though limited in the way that all images are, at least touch upon the truth that we will all know one day. Some of you, perhaps, come from the borderland, either the Emorian borderland or the Koretian borderland, and you may have heard your parents tell this tale when they were alive. Here in Emor, the worship of the Unknowable God has not existed long enough for native imagery to develop, but no doubt some day the Emorians will tell their own stories of what happens when men come for judgment before the Lawgiver who rules over your people. In the meantime, here is the story as the Koretian priests told it to me many years ago, when I was an orphan boy like yourselves." 

The priests in the northern balcony had shifted backwards, as though aware that they were no longer within the Jackal's vision. Only the soldier continued to lean upon the railing. Watching him, the boy felt a sudden coldness, like a man being touched by a death shadow, and as though in defiance of this feeling, he placed his fingers in his ears. 

No one noticed, and though the Jackal's voice was soft, it penetrated the boy's barrier. "It is said that when a man dies, the god of death comes to escort him to the Land Beyond. If the man has died in the normal way, or he is executed justly, his spirit remains in the Land of the Living for three days so that he can watch his kinsfolk mourn him. If the man is murdered, on the other hand, the Jackal comes for him at once. In either case, the man must then face a final judgment. As a boy, I was told that the Jackal judged whether the man was good or evil. The good were allowed to enter the gods' dwelling place after they had been punished for whatever small wrongdoings they had committed in their lives, while the evil were immediately flung into the pits of destruction. 

"As I grew older, though, I heard another story, less often told, but one that I have learned is closer to the truth. In fact, the person who makes the judgment is not the Jackal but the man himself. The judgment is whether to enter the Jackal's fire, that fire which burns away the remaining darkness of the man's evil desires and gives the man the ability to enter the City where the gods dwell. If the man has kept his face turned toward the gods during his lifetime, the purging is short, for he has already undergone the fire in his struggles to do good. But for men who are truly evil, the fire is long and the pain beyond that which the greatest torturer in the world could produce. Such men, when faced with this agony, sometimes choose instead to flee from the Jackal. Since they cannot enter the City in the Land Beyond, these men dwell in the pits outside the City that are nothing more than their own desire for self-destruction. The pits are dark, the pits are cold, and the pits are eternal, for the gods, having given men the right to choose for themselves good or evil, cannot take away from men the right to choose the evil of eternal death." 

The boy's arms were beginning to grow weary. He lowered his hands, not caring now whether he heard the Jackal's words, for all of his thoughts were on the soldier who stood on the balcony opposite. The Jackal was saying more now – something about fire and light and life – but the boy kept his gaze on the soldier, willing him to look away from the scene below. 

The Jackal's voice ceased. The High Priest spoke again for a short time, after which the crowd gave a collective sigh and began talking in normal tones. The orphan boys below rose to their feet and began jostling each other. The young priests hurried from the balcony, evidently eager to collect their charges before they made mischief. The soldier, after lingering at the railing, began to turn away. At the last moment he caught sight of the boy, standing alone now on the southern balcony. 

The soldier smiled – a broad smile that made the boy catch his breath. But almost immediately the soldier turned away to speak to a priest who had made his way onto the northern balcony and was gesturing. Without looking back at the boy, the soldier walked toward the balcony stairs. 

The boy released his breath. In the coolness of the Emorian autumn, his mouth emitted mist into the air, but almost as soon as the mist appeared, the boy was gone. As though imitating the soldier's indifference, he had turned toward the stairs and was hurrying down the steps. 

He found his path blocked by the seven-year-old boy. 

The younger boy had wheat-colored hair that fell over his shimmering blue eyes; he wore a brown tunic with a hood, a miniature version of the robes worn by the priests of the Unknowable God. His hands, small and delicate, grasped the railing carefully. He was smiling broadly. 

"I saw you on the balcony," he announced with pleasure. "I'm Gareth." He lifted his hand to his heart and his forehead in the free-man's greeting. 

The older boy, after a momentary assessment, continued on his way, brushing past Gareth. Gareth, undisturbed, trotted behind him in his wake. 

"You're from the borderland, aren't you?" he said breathlessly. "Are your parents new emigrants, or has your family lived in Emor for a long time?" He waited a respectable interval for a reply. When none came, he added, "Our patron comes from the borderland, you know. 'Tenant Griffith." 

The borderland boy, without looking back at Gareth, wove his way around the tapestry-covered altar-table in the center of the sanctuary. Upon it, in a brazier, the eternal flame of sacrifice burned. The crystal bowl, filled with water, flanked it on one side. On the other side rested the symbolic Cup of Friendship. The cup was only half-filled with wine; the borderland boy guessed that the Jackal had drunk from it. 

"He once led the Chara's border mountain patrol guard," Gareth said, still following the borderland boy like a buzzing fly. "They're the bravest soldiers in the world – they stop men from breaching the border between Koretia and Emor. 'Tenant Griffith was the one who persuaded the Chara to let our priests enter this land and start a house of worship here, and ever since he retired from the patrol he has given lots and lots of money to help the priests. He spends nearly all his time here—" 

The borderland boy spun round then, swiftly, like a hunted animal turned at bay. He did not touch Gareth, but the younger boy, seeing his expression, fell abruptly silent. 

_"Leave me at peace."_ The borderland boy's carefully spaced words were too quiet to be heard by the priests walking past the boys toward the northern door leading to the remainder of the house, but Gareth staggered back, as though the borderland boy had downed him with a blow. Without watching to see what further effect his words would have, the borderland boy turned and began walking down the sunlit corridor. 

The corridor was lined neatly with doors at regular intervals. A few of the doors were open, and the borderland boy could see that they led to living quarters and study chambers, now clogged with priests and orphan boys. Above the doors, the walls jutted upward into a clerestory, with unshuttered windows allowing light to fall onto the slate floor. Narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare, the borderland boy paid no attention to the men and boys he passed in the corridor, but made his way resolutely toward the door at the end of the corridor, like a soldier entering valiantly into battle. 

The door was ajar. The boy opened the door noiselessly, as he had seen his father do, and had a moment in which to survey the room before the others noticed him. 

It was a small chamber, with windows set high in the walls, so that the room seemed filled already with dusk. Lamps had been lit against the coming night. The northern-most windows glowed, though, and the boy knew that the glow must come from the reflected light of the Chara's palace. He turned his eyes away from the brightness. 

Amidst the sparse furnishings of desks and stools stood half a dozen men, five wearing priests' robes. The sixth man, though his back was to the door, turned immediately and gestured to the boy to close the door. The boy did so, and then went to stand by the soldier. 

The soldier draped his arm around the boy's shoulders and smiled at the High Priest. "My eldest son, High Father," he explained. "I would have brought him to you long before this, but whenever I come to visit here, it seems that my son is always busy with his brothers and sisters or is away in the mountains, playing Hunter and Hunted with our village's children." 

"That is hardly surprising, given his father's work." The High Priest did not smile at the boy, but he bowed his head in greeting. "Yes, I can see the resemblance. You have your father's eyes – and perhaps a little of his discerning spirit? His ability to see into the hearts of men is a gift from the God, and he has repaid the God many times over for that gift." 

"Hardly, High Father." The soldier shook his head. "I have so much time to catch up on – so many years spent without knowledge of the Unknowable God, so many years certain that no gods existed. Since the time that you opened my eyes to the reality of where my debt lies, I have been toiling daily to offer what sacrifices I can." 

"Perhaps you have been toiling in the wrong fields," contributed one of the priests dryly. It was the priest who had fetched the soldier from the balcony; he was now standing at the High Priest's right hand. "The God welcomes sacrifices, but I sometimes worry that your family is the one who makes the sacrifice, rather than you. You spend so much time here that you must seem like a stranger to them." 

"My family understands how it is for me, Aiken," said the soldier with ease, his arm still firm upon his son's shoulders. "In years past, I was like a man wandering blind in the night. You have shown me a shaft of light that will lead me, in the end, to that lighted City I hope to enter one day, through the God's mercy. In the meantime, I owe a debt, and any sacrifice I make is small in comparison to what I have been given. And so I have been trying to decide for some time what gift I should give to the God that would express my full love for him – what sacrifice would cut keenly enough into me that I should truly feel the pain." 

"Too great a sacrifice can be as much a sign of pride as too little a sacrifice," the High Priest commented. His gaze had been travelling ceaselessly between the soldier and his son. "Take care that you are sure of your motives for giving beyond what you have already given, Griffith." 

The soldier had begun shaking his head from the moment of the High Priest's first words. "No pride, High Father – I know how little my sacrifice will appear in the eyes of the God. What I give is small to the God, yet great to me – that is why I have chosen this gift. High Father, as a sign of my everlasting love of the God, I wish to present to this house my eldest son." 

The three priests at the back of the room, who had been listening attentively all this while, turned now to look at each other, raising their eyebrows. Aiken opened his mouth abruptly, but the High Priest was swifter still, saying in a calm voice, "Be assured that the God appreciates the sacrifice you have offered and that he accepts the love you have given him. We cannot accept the emblem of that love, however." 

"Certainly not," said Aiken indignantly. "The boys who live in this house are orphans, or else they are dedicated to this house as babes, because their parents cannot afford to raise them. To take a boy your son's age, one who has two loving parents who care for him . . ." 

"Did you talk of this with your wife, Griffith?" the High Priest asked. 

"Of course, High Father," the soldier replied. His eyes appeared puzzled, and he was frowning. "The sacrifice is from both of us. She finds it as hard as I do to let the boy go, but she understands where my spirit lies in this matter." 

The High Priest gave a small sigh, and then said firmly, "You are both god-lovers, Griffith; that has been clear since long before this. Nevertheless, your son's best interests are a matter that the God would wish you to consider. To leave his family now—" 

"I want to leave." 

The boy's words, hard and without hesitation, caused all in the room to look at him. Ducking free of the soldier's arm, the boy stepped forward and endured their scrutiny. 

He was shaking, and had been shaking since the moment of the soldier's announcement; bile filled his throat. Yet he tilted his head steadily to look up at the High Priest as he said, "I don't want to live with my parents any more. I want to live here." 

"You see?" said the soldier joyfully, smiling at the boy. "He is my son; his love of the gods is as great as mine." 

The boy did not look his way. Still staring up at the High Priest, he asked, "May I wait outside? I was talking with one of the other orphan boys before." 

The High Priest's gaze travelled over to the smiling soldier, and then quickly back to the boy. "Of course," he said quietly. "I'm sure that you would like to explore this house during your visit." 

The boy turned then and walked stiffly past the soldier, ignoring the hand that the soldier laid upon his head. He closed the corridor door behind him quickly, but as he did so, he could hear Aiken saying, in a changed voice, "Perhaps, in the boy's best interests . . ." 

Much to the borderland boy's surprise, Gareth was awaiting him. 

The corridors were empty now, and all of the doors were shut. In the short time since the borderland boy had entered the chamber, the light in the corridor had turned ruddy from the setting sun. In one of the pools of light falling upon the east wall, Gareth stood, watching the borderland boy with uncertain eyes. The borderland boy, with barely a pause in his stride, walked down the corridor, passing Gareth on the way. 

As the borderland boy had expected, Gareth detached himself from the wall and hurried down the corridor beside the older boy. "I'm sorry," he said. "I talked too much before. You're the guest; I should have let you talk." 

"You can talk without cease," said the borderland boy, not looking his way. "I'll be here for the next six years." 

"Will you?" Gareth channelled his delight into a skip and a leap. "Are you coming to live here, then? You'll like it here, truly you will. You'll have lots of friends. I'll be your friend if you'd like." 

The borderland boy stopped then. They had reached the end of the corridor, and all that lay before them was the rectangular doorway to the sanctuary, leading to the narrow passageway between the tiered seats. The borderland boy considered for a moment the empty sanctuary, which held only fiery specks of dust, twisting through the air under the evening light. Then he turned to Gareth, who was waiting anxiously beside him. 

"If you want to be my friend," he said, "where's the cup?" 

Gareth gaped at him for a moment, and then hopped in his place, saying, "Wait here. I'll be right back. Don't go away!" He darted past the borderland boy into the sanctuary. 

The borderland boy turned his back on the sanctuary and looked down the corridor he had just travelled. The sun's rays were crawling up the sides of the wall now, leaving a pool of darkness collecting on the ground. The door he had travelled through was shut. 

Gareth arrived at his side, panting in his haste. In his hand was a bejewelled cup, with the berry-red wine of Koretia inside it. "It's from the altar," he explained. "I don't think the High Priest would mind, though. What we're doing . . . It's a sacred vow, really." 

The borderland boy had turned his back halfway on the shut door at the other end of the corridor. He reached out and took the cup from Gareth, slowly raised it to his lips, and sipped from the wine of friendship. Gareth, his face flush from the evening light, wriggled with delight. 

Unnoticed by both boys, two men stood at the other end of the corridor, with the door behind them flung wide open. The soldier gestured toward the drinking boy, raising his eyebrows. The High Priest looked for a long moment at the borderland boy, as well as at Gareth, whose face was alight with a smile. Then the High Priest nodded heavily, and the two men turned to re-enter the chamber. 

If they had waited a moment longer, perhaps their thoughts would have changed, and if so, the destiny of the Three Lands would have taken a different course. 

It may be that the High Priest would not have recognized what he saw. Though a wise man, he was still relatively young, and he had always seen darkness in shapes that were easily recognizable: in the vicious look of a murderer holding a thigh-dagger, in the angry expression of a man who hated the gods, in the petulant pout of a self-centered woman. This was where he was accustomed to seeing darkness, and he had not yet learned the many shapes that darkness can take. 

The soldier might have been wiser, for within his family a seed had been planted long ago, so many generations past that the family tales told without words of the many methods by which his ancestors had prevented that seed from growing. The seed had not skipped his own generation, and if he had wished, he could have spoken to his children the warnings that his father had given him. Such a thought had never occurred to him, though, and he had not recognized the signs of the seed in his eldest son. 

What happened next would perhaps have alerted him to the danger and awoken him to the darkness he had turned his back on when he entered joyfully into the light. But he had turned away too soon, and so he did not see what Gareth saw in the moment that the borderland boy lowered the cup from his lips. 

Quentin-Andrew son of Quentin-Griffith was smiling. 

At age ten, Quentin-Andrew already had darkly beautiful eyes. His smile, calculated to the slightest degree in the manner of its curve, would have driven women wild later in his life if he had ever bothered to bestow it upon them. As it was, the smile caused Gareth to wriggle again, clearly overwhelmed by the gift he had been offered. As Gareth reached out to take the cup and drink from it, his hand brushed the borderland boy's, and Quentin-Andrew felt a warmth enter him, such as he had never felt before. His smile increased, and Gareth laughed with joy. 

Not until five years later, in the final moments of his life, would Gareth learn that Quentin-Andrew had smiled that day because he was imagining Gareth's death.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

They brought him to the dungeon of the Jackal's palace, the great building that had once housed hundreds of people. Just a handful remained now. The people in the Koretian capital had scattered, harried by the dark thrust of war, so that the only people left in the capital were the southern soldiers and the palace officials and lords whom they guarded. The lords and officials well knew what fate awaited them if they were captured; none of them had dared venture beyond the protective cordon of the Southern Army. 

Quentin-Andrew saw none of those men and women during his forced march through the bowels of the palace. All that he saw were soldiers, grim-faced, confronting their coming doom with short words and tight lips. Some were old men, others were boys; not many were left to fight for the freedom of Koretia and Daxis. They glanced at Quentin-Andrew without interest. He wondered for a moment whether they failed to recognize his northern uniform and simply thought that he was a southern soldier who had been arrested for crimes. Then he realized that the men would have regarded him in the same empty manner if he had been the Jackal himself, rising from the dead to lead his people in their final battle. The southern soldiers were husks, void of all thought and hope; they were reserving their energy in order to die in an honorable manner. 

The dungeon corridors were thick with tar-filled smoke from the torches; the soldiers escorting him coughed into their fists. Quentin-Andrew idly noted how little had changed in this place since he had been there last. Here was the same rough stonework, arching in a low ceiling that was blackened with torch-smoke; here were the same moans and cries, seeping like blood from under the doors; here were the same shadows, fluttering over him like the wings of a carrion bird. And there, straight ahead, the same golden glow— 

A door opened next to him, he was thrust without preliminary through the doorway, and he found himself in a cell hot with fire. 

The light was harsh to his sight. His eyes were slow to adjust, and when they did, he saw nothing that he had not expected. The instruments on the wall, the tools on the table – they were as familiar to him as the toys of his childhood. He wondered, dimly, why his heart pounded in his chest, as though he were in a strange place. 

The door had closed behind him. He heard the rasp of a key turning in the lock, and the part of him that was examining this room with professional interest gave a small smile. The locked door was a mistake. It was better at the start to leave the prisoner with hope that he might escape – better, in fact, to allow that hope to linger as long as possible. That made the moment when the hope died all the more delicious. 

As a soldier unbound his arms and wrists, Quentin-Andrew looked over at Randal, who was pulling off his cloak and hanging it on one of the hooks that was intended for other purposes. Without surprise, Quentin-Andrew saw that the young man's gaze was already fixed on him. Randal smiled as the borderlander looked his way, and he said, in a voice that sounded serious, "I hope that you approve." 

Without meaning to – and the fact that he had not meant to told Quentin-Andrew immediately what level of man he was dealing with – Quentin-Andrew shifted his gaze back to the objects of the room: the rings, the chains, the pulleys, the irons glowing on the fire. Beside him, Randal said in a matter-of-fact voice, "When I was hired last year, our subcommander gave me permission to stock this place in any way I wished. I made up my list based on the reports we'd received of the methods you use. I didn't think that I could improve upon perfection." 

Quentin-Andrew's mouth felt dry; he wondered why it was taking so long to recover from the effects of the gag. He turned his attention back to the soldiers. Only two of Randal's men had remained in the room. The older one was checking the heat of the fire, while the younger one was carefully inspecting the tools to see that they were ready. Quentin-Andrew noted this with professional approval. 

Randal snapped his fingers at the first man and nodded toward a shadow-smothered corner. Then, having delegated the early duties, he pulled himself onto the table, stained with black blood, and sat there, swinging his legs like a schoolboy. 

"I had mixed feelings about taking this assignment," reported Randal in the same light voice. "You're the hero of my childhood. I used to lie awake at night, dreaming that you would come and ask me to be your apprentice. I knew, of course, that I couldn't hope to reach your heights, but what man could? Since you never came, I learned everything I could about you: I studied your techniques, I recorded your questions in the few cases where the prisoner was released alive – I even received permission from the subcommander to examine the bodies of the men you had questioned, whenever those bodies were returned to our army. 

"It was like gazing on the work of an artist. What you did here—" He reached up with his hand and briefly indicated a spot on his body. "It never would have occurred to me, even if I'd lived as long as the Jackal did. Yet you knew . . . How in the names of all the world's gods did you know? You knew what it would do to a prisoner. The first time I used that technique I felt like a bard stealing another man's song, yet the results were too beautiful to throw away. Neither I, nor any man living, will ever be able to match you in what you do. 

"It seems such a shame to destroy you." 

The fire roaring quietly in the corner was pricking Quentin-Andrew's body with heat. With the sluggishness of a mind that has not been roused to curiosity for many years, Quentin-Andrew wondered why he continued to feel so cold. 

From the dark corner, the older assistant emerged, holding several objects, long and black and keenly crafted in a way that made Quentin-Andrew's heart ache. He had never had equipment that fine during his years of work; the Northern Army had been forced to wage war with makeshift tools, scarce at all times. Quentin-Andrew had not even had an assistant since the day that the man who helped him had been foolish enough to listen secretly as the Lieutenant questioned a spy who had to be broken quickly. Perhaps the assistant had merely wished to improve his own skills; perhaps he held hopes of rising above his official. Quentin-Andrew had never discovered the truth, for the assistant had lost his wits shortly thereafter. 

Quentin-Andrew had been puzzled by this event; his special technique was supposed to affect no one except the prisoner. But the end result had been that no one was willing to be the assistant's replacement. This had pleased Quentin-Andrew: he could accomplish more on his own. 

Now Randal turned to inspect what his assistant had brought him. After shaking his head at the first object offered, he carefully studied the remaining objects. As he did so, he said, "Your special form of questioning – you know what I'm talking about. You wouldn't be willing to teach that to me, I suppose? No?" Quentin-Andrew had said nothing, but Randal had glanced at his face as he spoke and extracted his answer from there. "Well, I suppose it's just as well. I'm not sure I'd have the skill to survive such training. If it could be taught in the abstract— But of course it can't; you'd have to demonstrate it on me. And even if we had the time for that, I wouldn't want to play the odds and see whether I could be the only man you ever failed to break." 

He made his decision, reaching for the one with knots, and then turned to look at his prisoner. Quentin-Andrew waited with practiced stillness to see which direction Randal would take. He could tell Quentin-Andrew to do it to himself – that would be the right technique for some prisoners. And if he decided the matter that way, Quentin-Andrew would know that he was in the hands of a man who had not yet learned his trade. 

A smile flitted across Randal's face, as though he had guessed Quentin-Andrew's thoughts once more. "Strip him," he said without moving his head to look at his assistants. At this word, the men came forward. 

Quentin-Andrew did not try to resist them. Between here and freedom stood a locked door, a guarded exit, hundreds of soldiers, and a moat that was bridgeless at this time of night. There was no sense in wasting strength he would need soon. The only question that was left – and as yet it had not reached the surface of his mind – was how great his loyalty was to the Commander, and how much he was willing to endure for the Commander's sake. 

Randal, watching as his assistants laid hands upon Quentin-Andrew, said, "I owe you a second debt you may not know of: you make me and all of the other torturers in the Great Peninsula look like the gods of daylight by comparison. My father . . ." Randal paused considerately as one of the assistants tore Quentin-Andrew's tunic open. Then he continued, "My father was ready to disown me when I took up this profession. He told me that he'd rather have an assassin in the family than someone who did this type of work. Then a few years ago we received word that you'd broken six men in one day. My father said grudgingly that at least I wasn't as bad as you. 'You only break men's bodies,' he told me, 'but the Lieutenant breaks men's spirits.'" 

Randal rose, reached over to a small ledge nearby, and tossed an object there into the waiting hand of his older assistant. Quentin-Andrew, as he was thrust face-forward against the wall and his arms were raised above him, had a moment to wonder why Randal chose to bind his prisoners with soft leather straps rather than rope. Had he found an advantage to this method over the burns caused by the coarse cords of hemp? Or was Randal still in the experimental stage that Quentin-Andrew had underwent thirty years before, testing various methods to see which ones worked best? Over time, Quentin-Andrew reflected, it was all too easy to become constrained within old patterns, to miss taking advantage of new ideas and new techniques. Quentin-Andrew had long since given up hope of being taught something he did not already know; now a touch of idle hope reached him that this episode would at least be worth his time in terms of education. 

He heard a footstep and turned his head. Randal had walked over to stand beside him; the young man was caressing, with absent-minded habit, the knotted line of the object he held. "Of course my father was wrong," he said quietly. "We both know that the breaking of the body means nothing. It is only when the spirit is broken that the prisoner gives forth his information. That's why, in a certain way, I've been looking forward to this assignment. You are a new challenge: how does one break the spirit of a man who is rumored to have none?" Randal gave a half-smile. "I grew up on stories telling that you were a demon in human form, and though I've heard tales like that about myself during the past few months, none have sounded as convincing as the stories told of you. They say that no man alive has seen your spirit – even to your Commander you are a mystery. Is it true that there's nothing left of you in the Land of the Living? Was your spirit eaten by a demon long ago?" 

Quentin-Andrew's arms were beginning to ache. He inwardly recorded this information without interest, along with the fact that his body felt far more comfortable now that his clothes were gone. The heat that was making droplets of moisture begin to dribble down Randal's face touched Quentin-Andrew only lightly, and now that he was facing away from the fire, the light no longer bothered him. He felt secure in the cool darkness, and as yet nothing touched the surface of his spirit to suggest what was taking place at lower depths. 

Randal, still stroking the object in his hand, grew suddenly still, his smile fading. Then he said, in a very quiet voice, "Ah. Now, that I would not have guessed. You see? I have become your apprentice despite the different paths of our lives; your presence here is teaching me things I did not know about you. I am looking forward all the more now to our time together." 

His gaze flicked over to the assistants, and he gestured with his head. Quentin-Andrew heard the soft scuff of boots retreating as the men gave Randal the room he needed. Randal took a step back, judged the distance, and stepped back once more, stretching his arm in readiness. "I won't bore you with the usual pleas for cooperation," he said. "You know the information I want; you know what will happen if you refuse to speak. Do you need more time to decide?" He paused but an instant before saying, "No. Well, then. . ." He reached out his arm again, allowing the object to unfold at full length; then he glanced at Quentin-Andrew and smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I've never had the benefit of watching you do this. If my technique is somewhat slipshod, that's why." He pulled his arm back. 

In the moment before the blow landed, Quentin-Andrew became aware, as he had not been before, of various noises around him: the scraping of metal as one of the assistants picked up the next tool, the low scream of the fire nearby, and the hard and rhythmic pounding of his heart. And it was at that moment, in the bare second before the whip touched fire upon his flesh, that two appalling facts worked themselves to the surface of his spirit. 

He was afraid. And what was worse, Randal knew that he was afraid. 

o—o—o

Already his visit to the Jackal's palace was proving to be a disappointment, Quentin-Andrew reflected as he lowered the unconscious guard to the ground. From all that he had heard about the god-man who ruled Koretia, he would have expected the Jackal to have trained his soldiers well, yet it had taken only one pebble pitched in the right direction to distract the attention of the royal residence guard for as long as was necessary. The Jackal had best not prove to be as foolish a man as his guards, Quentin-Andrew thought as he turned his attention to pulling the guard behind the glowing arch that marked the entrance to the royal residence. If the Jackal was, then Quentin-Andrew's trip to this palace was in vain. 

Pulling from his belt a flask of strong cider, he trickled a small amount into the guard's mouth, then placed the flask in the guard's limp hand, allowing the cider to collect in a pool on the floor. This done, he glanced down the corridor he had just travelled. The guards were still on patrol further into the dungeon; the corridor was deserted and quiet, except for the sobs emanating from a cell nearby. Quentin-Andrew appreciated the sobs, not only because they made his body grow warm in a comfortable manner, but also because they had covered the sound the guard's head had made when it was hit with the iron. 

Quentin-Andrew carefully laid the iron aside in the shadows; he would not be needing that now. What was needed from this point on was not force but guile, as well as swiftness. It would not be long before the patrolling soldiers noticed the absence of the guard, and by that time he must be at his destination. 

He turned. The corridor behind him was kept purposely unlit, but Lieutenant Quentin-Griffith had taught his eldest son how patrol guards moved in the dark; he had also taught his son what tricks border-breachers used to get past the border mountain patrol. A smile entered into Quentin-Andrew's eyes. He wondered what his father would think if he knew to what use his son would put that knowledge tonight. 

Then the smile disappeared. Quentin-Andrew never allowed his thoughts to dwell long on his childhood. 

Slowly, steadily, he moved forward until he could see the glow around the corner ahead. He paused a moment, wishing that he could see the faces of the guards he was approaching; so much depended on what type of men they were. But that was a risk he must take. He waited to allow his eyes to adjust to the light; then he sprang suddenly around the corner and began running with all his might. 

He knew that he did not have far to go; he ran fast only because he wanted to come close quickly, so that the guards could see that there was no blade at his belt. Without that knowledge, they might loose their spears immediately. As it was, their spears were lowered with unreassuring suddenness, blocking his path. He skidded to a halt, barely avoiding being impaled on one of the shafts. 

"Thank the gods that you're still on alert," he said without preliminary, speaking in the low voice of a man who is accustomed to remaining quiet and calm, even in the face of disaster. "Come quickly; the other guard—" 

"Who are you, sir, and what is your business?" The elder of the two guards was wearing the uniform of a sublieutenant. He was about the same age as Quentin-Andrew, thirty-five, and he looked grave and unshaken. 

This did not bode well. Quentin-Andrew turned his head slowly, as though noticing for the first time their weapons, shimmering in the torchlight before the guarded doorway. The younger of the guards was chewing his lip hard in a manner satisfactory to Quentin-Andrew, though his spear was steady. 

Quentin-Andrew allowed his face to fall into the proper mixture of astonishment, exasperation, and the ill-contained impatience of a man who finds himself confronted with a pair of fools. "Who in the names of all the gods do you think I am?" he asked. "Do you think I wear an outfit like this in the palace for the pleasure of being arrested? Or do I need to show you this?" He flicked up the edge of his tunic momentarily. 

The tunic was Daxion and belonged to the soldier that Quentin-Andrew had killed on his way over the border; the thigh-pocket strapped around his leg, on the other hand, was of Koretian design. Only the tiny thigh-dagger, whose hilt peeked out from the pocket, belonged to Quentin-Andrew. He had bought it on the day he left the House of the Unknowable God, using the money he had taken from the priests' offerings for the poor. 

The sublieutenant allowed his gaze to flick down toward the thigh-dagger only momentarily; then his eyes rose to Quentin-Andrew's face once more. "Your name?" he asked quietly. 

Quentin-Andrew paused; to give his name too quickly would not be wise. Then, having apparently weighed and discarded all other options, he said in a tight voice, "Lieutenant Seaver. Of the Jackal's thieves. And if you expect me to produce proof of my identity, then the Jackal is employing bigger fools than he was when I last visited this land." 

There was a flicker in the sublieutenant's expression, as Quentin-Andrew had hoped there would be; he had gambled on the possibility that the royal residence guards would be entrusted with the names of the Jackal's spies. Quentin-Andrew had in fact met the thief whose name he was stealing. When last he saw him alive, the man's expression had been one of profound relief as Quentin-Andrew granted him the mercy-stroke. Standing nearby had been the torturer of the Daxion palace; his expression had been one of awe, having been privileged to see Quentin-Andrew at work. 

That had been only yesterday. So swiftly had Quentin-Andrew broken the prisoner that the spy's arrest would not have been reported yet to the Jackal's palace. 

The sublieutenant, apparently deciding to take the safer road in this matter, said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you into the royal residence. Not without the Jackal's permission beforehand." 

"May the Jackal eat his dead!" Quentin-Andrew followed this up with a string of curses in Border Koretian. He did not speak Common Koretian well enough to be able to pass as a southerner; it was better that the men take him to be what he was, a borderlander. Only a fellow borderlander would be able to tell from his accent that he came from the north of the border rather than the south of it. 

The younger guard's eyes were wide now; apparently he had some knowledge of Border Koretian. Switching quickly back to Common Koretian, Quentin-Andrew said, in the same quiet voice as before, "Are you two mad? Do you think I'd venture into the residence at this time of night? I wish to live long enough to complete my service to the Jackal, and entering his quarters uninvited would shorten my lifespan considerably. I _thought_ " – he allowed the word to linger – "that you might be interested in what has happened to the other guard." 

There was a moment's pause before the sublieutenant said, "Stay on alert, Orrick." The younger guard, still chewing on his lip, nodded and placed his spear in guard position across the doorway. Quentin-Andrew, without waiting to see whether the sublieutenant was following, turned and began walking rapidly back the way he came. 

As he rounded the corner he felt the older guard join him at his side. "Sublieutenant Roe of the Royal Residence Watch," the guard said breathlessly as he strove to keep pace with Quentin-Andrew. "Sir, I can't stay away from my post for long." 

"This won't take long," said Quentin-Andrew grimly and pointed to the slumped body ahead. 

Roe reached the guard's side with a swiftness that caused Quentin-Andrew to reassess his views on the training of the Jackal's soldiers. Within a very few moments, Roe had checked the guard's pulse, had found and sniffed the flask, and had dragged the guard's body into the light spilling in from the corridor. His inspection of the body was just as swift. 

"Drunk on duty?" Roe said, in the voice of a man making a tentative hypothesis. 

"That's what you're meant to think." It had taken Quentin-Andrew only a second to change his tactics; his revision of plans arose from Roe's careful inspection. Helpfully – since Roe would have found the spot in the next moment anyway – Quentin-Andrew turned the guard's head to reveal the small lump at the back. "Look at this," he said. 

Roe's eyes rose toward the empty corridor; then he looked back toward the dark corridor they had just traversed. "Has anyone gone past you tonight?" Quentin-Andrew asked. 

"No one, sir." Roe rose from the unconscious body. "His pulse is steady; he's not badly hurt. Sir, I left Orrick alone—" 

"You're right, we shouldn't leave that entrance with a single guard. We can talk there." 

Before Quentin-Andrew had finished his sentence, Roe had started racing back to his guard post. By the time that Quentin-Andrew arrived, Roe was completing his explanation to Orrick of what had happened. The sublieutenant looked over at Quentin-Andrew and said, as if he had been asked again, "No one has tried to come past us, sir, and we've been on watch for six hours." 

"The entrance upstairs?" Quentin-Andrew spoke absentmindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. This was not a hard feat, since he knew the answer to his own question. 

"Locked at this time of night, sir, and within full view of the main corridor, which is always busy. No one could enter the royal residence in that way." 

"In any case, the man we're looking for was planning to come through this entrance. He must have been scared away when I walked past, but he'll be back." Quentin-Andrew gave a small smile, the hardest exercise he had undergone all night, since he had to remember which face muscles to use. "Forgive me, sublieutenant, for interfering in business that is your own, but my guess is that we are dealing with one of my enemy colleagues. If that's the case, then the man we're waiting for is very dangerous and very clever. He'll be arriving here in disguise – he may already have been disguised for many weeks now. He may be a soldier you know and trust, perhaps even an official." 

"Not even army officials can enter the residence unless we allow them to, sir," Roe said flatly. 

"And your own officials? We should alert them to what has happened—" 

"The Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch is in meeting with the Captain of the Palace Guard tonight," Orrick volunteered. His eyes had been darting from wall to wall all this time, as though anticipating the moment of confrontation. "They'll both be in the royal residence." 

Quentin-Andrew nodded as though he had known this already, as indeed he had. "And my official, alas, is out on a mission; that means I report directly to the Jackal. So we can receive no help there." 

"If we called an alert—" said Orrick eagerly. 

"The spy would take alarm from the noise and escape," said Roe. "That's what you fear, isn't it, sir?" 

"Worse than that. I fear that whichever official we contacted about this would turn out to be the spy himself." Quentin-Andrew allowed himself to slump dejectedly against the wall. "The only men I would absolutely trust in this palace are my fellow thieves, and they happen to be the only men who could track down this spy or assassin or whatever he turns out to be. The trouble is, only the Jackal knows how to contact the other thieves." He raised his eyes and held them steady upon Roe's. "I'm sorry, sublieutenant, but it appears that either you or Soldier Orrick will need to enter the royal residence to let the Jackal know what has happened." 

Blood welled as Orrick bit into his lip; the younger guard looked quickly toward Roe. Roe was evidently well versed in stoic expressions, but he said quietly, "One man can't hold this entrance, sir. Do you have experience in guarding?" 

"None, I'm afraid." Quentin-Andrew tried a self-deprecating smile, and then abandoned the effort. "I'm trained only to defend myself through a quick killing. I take it that what we need in this case is to capture the spy so that he can be questioned." 

"Yes, sir." Roe kept his gaze fixed on Quentin-Andrew, and Quentin-Andrew was careful not to allow his own gaze to waver. Hidden in the palm of his right hand was his thigh-dagger; if this plan did not work, he would have to kill the guards after all, and he could not allow himself that pleasure tonight. Dead guards would cause greater excitement in the palace than unconscious ones. 

After a moment, Roe eased Quentin-Andrew by saying, "I'm sorry, sir; we're under orders to remain at our posts until we are relieved. I'm afraid that you'll need to carry the news to the Jackal of what has happened." 

"Well." Quentin-Andrew swallowed in an obvious manner, and then cleared his throat. "No doubt he has a guard at his door who can give the report—" 

"No guard, sir; the Jackal doesn't need one. We're only here to protect the other residents of the royal residence." Roe stepped back from the doorway. "Don't worry, sir. If he hears you knock at the door, he'll take the time to learn who you are, and he has met you before." 

"Very well." Quentin-Andrew was intensely aware of the passing minutes; he decided that it was time to look forceful again. Squaring his shoulders like a spy setting out on a difficult and possibly life-threatening mission, he said, "If he has any special orders for you, I'll report back. Otherwise. . ." 

"No one will pass through this doorway, sir," Roe reassured him. "Not even the subcommander himself." 

Quentin-Andrew nodded, adding in a quiet voice as he stepped by, "I'll let the Jackal know how well served he has been tonight." Then he was through the entrance, and he was able to let the dagger lie loose in his hand. 

Too long, he thought; it had taken too long to pass that keen-eyed sublieutenant, and if Roe had possessed just a few years more of experience, Quentin-Andrew would not have been able to pass him at all. 

Now, of course, Roe would never gain that experience. By this time next week, the sublieutenant would be dismissed or dead, depending on how heavily he was punished for tonight's mistake. But that was a matter of no interest to Quentin-Andrew. 

He climbed two flights of steps, pausing only to scoop up a loose chip of marble that he felt underfoot. The stairs were unlit; if the stories about the Jackal were true, the god-man needed no extra help in negotiating the night darkness. At the top of the steps, Quentin-Andrew hesitated in the shadows. No sound came from the corridor except a soft exchange of men's voices to the right; that would be the Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch in meeting with his official. Aside from the Jackal, only the High Lord and his family lived in the royal residence. The Jackal's heir had moved from the palace many years ago, purportedly so that he could raise his son in quiet isolation from palace politics. 

Quentin-Andrew threw the chip of marble forward into the lighted corridor, then waited. No guard came to investigate. After a moment, he eased his way into the corridor, looked quickly toward the closed doors to the right, and walked equally swiftly to the left, toward the door at the end of the corridor. 

The door was unmarked, and was lit only by the glow of the golden stones of the corridor's outside wall. Quentin-Andrew tested the latch cautiously before he began edging the door open at the same speed that a middle-aged tortoise would use when it was in no great hurry. The door had opened little wider than a hand's span when Quentin-Andrew slid inside the chamber and closed the door swiftly and noiselessly. 

The shutters in the room were closed; a moment passed before Quentin-Andrew was able to adjust to the patrol vision he had acquired as a child. There was little to see in any case: a table, a stool, a trunk, a bed, and the ruler of Koretia, curled up peacefully in his slumbers. 

His back was to the door; Quentin-Andrew could just see the shimmer of his silver hair. The rest of his body was in clear outline against the light peering through the cracks of one of the shutters. On this warm summer's night, the Jackal had abandoned all blankets and lay only in his undertunic and breech-cloth. He looked as defenseless as a child. Not even a cushion lay under his head, the first place Quentin-Andrew had looked, since that was the best place to hide a dagger during the night. With his hand still curled around his thigh-dagger, Quentin-Andrew cautiously approached the ruler. He could see the other side of the Jackal's body now. The ruler's hands were empty and were beyond reach of any object or hiding place. 

Quentin-Andrew raised his blade so that it was in line with the Jackal's heart. The light from the shutter shone upon the dagger, causing a small reflection to appear on the opposite wall. Hastily, Quentin-Andrew turned the blade so that the reflection now shimmered on the dark skin of the Jackal's arm. He raised his other hand in order to muffle the Jackal's mouth. 

His hand never touched the Jackal. A roar filled the room like the sound of fire eating the heart of a building. Quentin-Andrew saw a shimmer of light move toward him like a falling star, and then he was staggering back, his heart pounding from the pain across his right cheek, where five wounds had suddenly appeared. 

Only his quick retreat saved him. The next swipe of the claws, aimed at his heart, fell short of its target, and the Jackal made no immediate effort to follow him. Quentin-Andrew could see the god-man's body only dimly, but his face was as clear as midday: his eyes shone like sun-sparks, his whiskers curled back like butchers' blades, and his teeth were honed to arrow-points. His mouth was smiling. 

Quentin-Andrew did not notice that his own body was shaking; he was busy judging the distance between himself and the door. The windows were too far away to escape through, but it made no difference. On second reflection, he realized that any movement he made toward an exit would result in his immediate death. He wished that he had paid closer attention to the stories about the Jackal, as well as to Roe's veiled warning. 

The Jackal's roar had diminished, but now a snarling began, like a warning sign given by a beast that is too polite to attack without cause. In the same moment, Quentin-Andrew realized that his greatest mistake had been to enter this chamber armed. With rapid calculation he weighed the odds against himself, and then he dropped the thigh-dagger onto the floor. 

The snarling stopped, but the Jackal remained as he was, poised on the edge of his toes, ready to pounce. With a voice as deep as thunder and as soft as flames, the god-man said, _"How dare you come into my presence, you who lie under my curse."_

Quentin-Andrew was finding it increasingly hard to breathe, and he laid a silent curse upon himself for seeking out the one man he had most cause to avoid. His voice was cool, though, as he replied, "I came to seek your advice, Jackal." 

In an instant, the room turned dark. Blind to all images, Quentin-Andrew waited with tensed muscles, straining his spirit to hear the Jackal's approach. A light flared. Quentin-Andrew shaded his eyes, and when he lowered his arm, the god-man of Koretia stood before him, emptied of his power. 

His human face was in no way remarkable, except for his eyes, which were as black as dead coals. His face contained many lines from old age; his body contained many lines too, but most of these were old blade wounds. Quentin-Andrew realized, with rueful belatedness, that even without his godly power, the Jackal might not have proved easy to overcome. He stood stiffly, enduring the Jackal's inspection, but his breath whistled in as the Jackal raised his left hand. On the nails of the Jackal's fingers, the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek was still fresh. 

The Jackal laid his hand on that cheek, turning Quentin-Andrew's face gently toward the candlelight. He said quietly, "Your wounds need to be washed." 

He turned away, and Quentin-Andrew, without being aware of the fact, closed his eyes momentarily and let his breath out in a long sigh. After a minute, the Jackal returned with a basin and washcloth in hand. He raised the cloth and began wiping the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek, which continued to burn sharply. 

With his gaze focussed on his task, the Koretian ruler said softly, "May I know your name?" 

Quentin-Andrew's eyes narrowed. "Don't you know it already?" 

"I know only what my powers tell me: that you lie under the gods' curse." The Jackal stepped back, dipped his left hand briefly in the water, and wiped the remaining blood from his hand before placing the basin on the table nearby. As he did so, he carefully nudged three objects aside. Quentin-Andrew made note of them in an automatic manner. 

The Jackal took several steps back. His body was now full in the light, and Quentin-Andrew could see the sagging skin and the slight tremble of old age. The ruler was still wearing nothing more than his undertunic. In the same soft voice as before, the Jackal said, "No one places men under the gods' curse in our day except the priests of the Unknowable God, and they have done so very few times over the years. I remember one case that occurred twenty years ago, when they placed the curse upon a borderlander because he had killed a twelve-year-old boy." 

"I tortured him to death," Quentin-Andrew said in the emotionless voice of a man who simply wishes to clarify facts. 

The Jackal made no immediate reply. In the interval of silence – which seemed empty and cold in comparison to the fire-roar that had come before – a pounding began upon the chamber door. "Jackal!" shouted an accompanying voice. "Jackal, are you in there?" 

Quentin-Andrew's estimation of Roe rose another notch. It had not taken the sublieutenant long to recognize the flaws in Quentin-Andrew's story. Unhurriedly, the Jackal walked to the door and opened it slightly. A low-voiced discussion followed, and then the door closed. When the Jackal turned back, his expression had not changed. He said nothing more than, "You could teach my thieves a few lessons." 

Quentin-Andrew shook his head. "My only skills in that respect are in breaking into buildings and breaking out of them." 

"Breaking out of them," the Jackal murmured. Then: "How many times have you been arrested?" 

Quentin-Andrew made no reply, and after a moment the Jackal nodded. "You tortured the boy to death," he said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation, "and because you were a boy yourself, not yet sixteen, you were beyond the penalties of the Chara's law. So the priests tried at first to talk with you, and when you refused to answer their questions, they tried to show you the evil you had done, so that you would turn your face once more toward the gods. But all that you said was, 'I cannot change what I am.' And so, seeing your cold refusal of all efforts to help you, they took the only path left to them: they placed you under the gods' curse and drove you from their midst." 

Still Quentin-Andrew made no reply. His heart's pace was unhurried now, and his body was warm with the remembrance of what he had done. A smile entered into his eyes, and he saw the Jackal's expression flicker. Then the ruler asked, "Were you fond of the boy?" 

"Why would I have been?" Quentin-Andrew replied tersely. 

The Jackal raised his hands in a brief shrug. "I was trying to determine under what circumstances you would commit such a deed. Do you kill out of hatred? Or out of love?" 

This was the first indication Quentin-Andrew had received that the Jackal's mind was as quick as his body. It took him a moment to formulate his reply. "I enjoy pain. Long pain most of all. And deep pain. If I know the person well, then I am able to drive the pain deeper." 

"So," the Jackal said softly, "those who love you are in greatest danger from you." 

"All are in danger from me." 

The Jackal stood considering this. His hand was upon the table beside him, absentmindedly brushing the faded colors of a cluster of autumn leaves. After a while he asked, "Why have you come here?" 

"Not to request that you lift the curse." Quentin-Andrew's reply was quick. 

"No," said the Jackal slowly. "No, I can see that is not your purpose. If it were, then I would not have reacted to your entrance in the way that I did. In any case, the curse lies too deep for me to reach. Only you have the ability to burn it away." 

Quentin-Andrew ignored these words, as well as the pleasure caused by the sudden image he held of a brand-iron on the fire, waiting to be used on a prisoner. The Jackal asked, "What is your purpose, then, in coming?" 

Quentin-Andrew raised his eyebrows and said dryly, "Only to seek the advice of a fellow torturer on where I should ply my trade." 

The silence was absolute, but for the whisper of the candle. For one dark moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he saw the Jackal's eyes begin to glow. When the Jackal replied, though, his voice was matter-of-fact. "To advise you, I must know your skills." 

"Then show me to one of your prisoners." 

The Jackal shook his head. "I question all of the prisoners here myself, as you know. Our methods, I believe, differ too much to allow me to place a prisoner under your care. You must demonstrate your skills on me." 

Quentin-Andrew wordlessly placed his hand on his cheek, where the blood was still drying. The Jackal said, "I will not use my powers against you. I promise you that." 

"Promises can be broken," Quentin-Andrew replied. 

After a moment, the Jackal nodded. Walking forward, he scooped Quentin-Andrew's thigh-dagger from the floor, cut his right palm, and swore his oath to the gods – the oath of a ruler, the most sacred kind possible. Then he handed Quentin-Andrew the dagger. Quentin-Andrew's hand was warm now, as was the rest of his body. 

Two minutes were required, no more, before Quentin-Andrew had the Jackal stripped and in the position he wanted on the bed. It had taken that long only because Quentin-Andrew had needed time to extract from his thigh-pocket the face-cloth and thin cords that he always carried. Now he checked the Jackal's bonds and gag once more before placing the thigh-dagger edge-on against the Jackal's throat. 

This was – Quentin-Andrew would readily have admitted – a hackneyed move, used by all the torturers of the Three Lands. Quentin-Andrew started this way partly because he knew that the greatest fear could be raised by using methods that would be expected by the prisoner. He started this way also because it gave him the opportunity to check the prisoner's heartbeat. The Jackal's was rapid – this was hardly surprising, given the manner in which Quentin-Andrew had subdued him. But the ruler's pulse remained steady; the Jackal stared up at Quentin-Andrew with unblinking eyes. 

Quentin-Andrew let the dagger disappear into the palm of his hand. When it reappeared again, the hand was beyond the Jackal's view. A third reason for starting with the thigh-dagger was the weapon's reputation. The slightest touch of the razor-thin blade, it was said, could bring death. The Jackal, who was no doubt familiar with the blade's power, did not stir as Quentin-Andrew placed the dagger's edge against the spot he wanted. The flats of the blade were now pressed between two of Quentin-Andrew's fingers, allowing him to judge the blade's progress without moving his gaze from the Jackal's face. A moment later, he felt moisture against his fingers. A slight sound in the Jackal's throat confirmed that blood had been drawn. 

Quentin-Andrew was watching the Jackal carefully, but the results were unsatisfactory. He could see the steady pulse of a blue tunnel of blood in the Jackal's neck. No, this was not the right place to start, Quentin-Andrew reflected. While most men in the Three Lands had no greater fear than the operation that Quentin-Andrew was delicately suggesting, the Jackal was a priest, and he had dedicated his manhood to the gods long ago. Nor would he react strongly to pain, Quentin-Andrew could see from his eyes. Some soldiers were like that, and the Jackal had fought in many battles. 

Not very hopefully, Quentin-Andrew moved the dagger until it was over the Jackal's heart. The Jackal made no sound as the blade pricked him with a forewarning of death; his pulse was as even as though he were still sleeping peacefully. Only one method remained. 

As it happened, it was Quentin-Andrew's favorite. 

He stepped back and let his hand drift over to the table beside him. The movement of the Jackal's gaze told him that he had been right. Smiling now with his eyes, Quentin-Andrew said softly, "You have a reputation, Jackal, for being excessively fond of your blood kin." 

The only change in the scene before him came from the slight increase in pace of the Jackal's breath. That was enough to encourage Quentin-Andrew to pick up the first object he touched. He said without looking down at it, "A love basket – the sort of gift that a woman might give to an elder kinsman. This came from your ward, I take it. Well, she is with the gods now; I will not disturb the dead." His hand moved. This time he did not bother to pick up the object, for the Jackal's eyes were following his progress. "A braided sling – a gift from one soldier to another. May I hazard a guess that this comes from your ward's son, Perry-John? Your heir is said to return your affection, Jackal. Nonetheless . . ." He changed course as the Jackal's gaze flicked toward the third object and then quickly back again. "Perhaps it would be best to leave him aside. Soldiers do not give me much pleasure, for they are used to pain. This is what gives me the most pleasure. . ." His hand moved until it reached the leaves. "Children," he finished softly. 

The slight tensing of the Jackal against his bonds told Quentin-Andrew that he had guessed right again. He let his fingertips brush the dried leaves, reading from it what manner of victim he had chosen. "A leaf bouquet," he said, still watching the Jackal's face. "A very childish gift indeed, and young Dolan is now fourteen, only two years from manhood. Could it be, Jackal, that your heir keeps his son hidden because he is not the warrior that the son of an heir confirmed should be? But of course—" He lowered his voice and allowed the smile in his eyes to deepen. "'Hidden' is a word that only fools use, and you are not a fool, Jackal. You know that, despite all your efforts to keep Dolan's location secret, some men – even dangerous men – know where Dolan dwells. But that doesn't matter, does it? Young Dolan – innocent Dolan – sleeps peacefully tonight, knowing that he is immune from danger because the Jackal's powers will protect him." 

The blue tunnel in the Jackal's throat leapt. A harder throbbing of blood followed. Picking up the leaves, Quentin-Andrew moved forward and said, yet more softly, "You are not fool enough to believe that Dolan is hidden from me, Jackal, but you are fool enough to have lifted the shield you use to protect him. Did you really think that I would come here to seek your advice?" He let his voice grow scornful. "I could have taken Dolan any time during the past few weeks if I had not known that your powers protect him. And so I came here and very politely asked you to swear that you would not use your powers while I demonstrated mine – and you agreed. You agreed to Dolan's doom." He crushed the leaves in his hands. They fluttered onto the Jackal's face, causing him to blink rapidly. 

"You disappoint me, Jackal," said Quentin-Andrew, his scorn unshielded now. "I thought that you would be more clever than to allow a god-cursed man – a man who has already killed a boy – unlimited freedom to use his powers against you. Did you think I would not know that your own torture and death mean little to you? The pain of others is what hurts you, and because you hold the powers of the god of death, you will know when Dolan dies. You will lie hidden in this palace, bound not only by my bindings but also by your oath, and you will hear Dolan cry out to you for help. And you will do nothing. You will allow him to die in slow torment and anguish, the victim not of me, but of your foolish trust." 

Slowly, like sunlight creeping across the ground, the movement finally came: the Jackal's hands, bound above him, curled into two fists. Quentin-Andrew stood a moment, savoring the move which he knew was sharper than the scream of an ordinary man, and then he cut the Jackal's bonds. He placed the dagger in the Jackal's hand and waited. 

The Jackal said nothing as he removed his gag, wiped off the blood trickling down his leg, rose from his bed, and donned his breech-cloth and undertunic once more. He kept his eyes averted from Quentin-Andrew. Finally he handed the thigh-dagger to Quentin-Andrew and said quietly, "You did right to come to me." 

Quentin-Andrew slid the dagger into his thigh-pocket and waited as the Jackal gently brushed the crumpled leaves off his bed. After a moment more, the ruler said, "I cannot take you under my care, for reasons that you know; nor can the Chara. You have been to Daxis, I take it?" Quentin-Andrew nodded, and the Jackal said slowly, "The young Queen is mild of heart and rarely visits her palace's dungeon; she gives freedom to her torturers to proceed as they wish. You were right not to take employment there." 

He moved to the broad-ledged window and pulled the shutter back, allowing light to flood into the room. Quentin-Andrew stepped back into the shadows, which were beginning to grow cold again. The Jackal was now looking out toward the black border mountains, many miles away at the northern edge of Koretia. He said, "My thieves tell me that Emor's northern dominions are planning to rebel against the Chara." 

He paused, and Quentin-Andrew, now emptied of the warmth he had felt before, said coolly, "That is of no surprise." 

"Yes, the Chara has given his dominions just cause for such a rebellion; his hand is heavy upon them. If the rebellion comes, it will be led by the head of the army of the Marcadian dominion: a soldier who is a few years younger than yourself but who has already acquired a reputation in his trade. It is said that he is a man of honor and a firm disciplinarian. He allows his soldiers to create as much harm as is necessary to win their battles, but no more." 

The Jackal turned. His face was now in shadow, but his silver hair glowed white against the moon. "My advice to you would be to place yourself under the care of this soldier. Make clear to him that you require boundaries in your work, and make clear that he must supervise you to be sure that those boundaries are kept. Within those boundaries, if the coming war follows the pattern of previous wars, you will have ample opportunity to use your talents, but you will do so under the watchful eye of a god-loving man. The rest will be up to you." 

Quentin-Andrew nodded. He had finished placing the cords and spittle-soaked face-cloth into his thigh-pocket, and now he turned his face toward the dark door leading to the corridor. 

"Quentin-Andrew." 

Twenty years had passed since Quentin-Andrew had last heard his name, and it brought back the sting of his youth. As a young child he had been proud to hear his birth-name, since it evoked the father and grandfather for whom he had been named. His name had been the first thing he had discarded when he left the House of the Unknowable God. 

Now he turned slowly, and only because the god-man had been released from his oath. But the Jackal's face remained human. The ruler said, "You have not asked me one question." 

"Which is?" The words were spoken in a chill manner. 

"Why the gods have done this to you." 

A knife's edge of feeling, as thin and sharp as a thigh-dagger, touched the surface of Quentin-Andrew's spirit. It was immediately gone, and he watched without any great interest as the Jackal walked toward him. His thoughts, in fact, were on the tremor in the Jackal's body, and on the pleasure he would have received from increasing that tremor. He regretted that he had kept the Jackal bound for so short a time. As the ruler came closer, Quentin-Andrew made note of the blood tunnels standing out on his neck, the delicacy of his fingers, the gentleness of his eyes. Quentin-Andrew gave an inward sigh, like a bard who is deprived of making song. 

"It is a question that all men ask," the Jackal said. "We all have some darkness that we must purge from our spirits, and purge again and again. Your darkness is greater than most. You must have asked yourself why the gods made you this way and why they have allowed you to remain this way. Surely, with just a touch of their powers, they could remove this demon that eats at you, destroying your spirit and forcing you to struggle with all your might to do what the average man can do with scarcely a thought. Why are you tortured with this burden? Why must you suffer this pain?" 

"I suffer no pain," said Quentin-Andrew in the quiet voice of a man correcting a simple error. "Those who fall into my hands suffer pain." 

The Jackal was silent a moment before nodding. "Yes," he said, "it must seem that way to you. Even good has become evil to you now that evil has become good. But you would not have come to me tonight if the demon had entirely destroyed your spirit. You would not have sought my advice on how to contain your darkness. I will not tell you, as the priests of the Unknowable God did, that you can change yourself; the priests may have been wrong. Sometimes the gods lay burdens upon us that we must bear during our entire sojourn through the Land of the Living. But you must not forget that the Jackal's fire is able to turn evil to good. I think that you will have to suffer greatly before you recognize the full meaning of that teaching, but this much I can tell you now: the ability you possess, to read into the hearts of men and to break their spirits, can be used to serve the gods." 

"I have no desire to serve the gods." Quentin-Andrew's voice was flat, uninterested. His mind was drifting away toward the north, where new work awaited him. 

"Do you desire to serve your work?" 

The Jackal's voice caught at him, pulling him back. Quentin-Andrew, who had been at the point of turning away, paused to look back at the Jackal, but the ruler said nothing more, so Quentin-Andrew replied finally, "I am skilled at my work." 

A smile appeared on the Jackal's face suddenly, as though his intruder had made a statement that revealed much. Quentin-Andrew remembered, with some uneasiness, that the god-man of Koretia had a formidable reputation for breaking prisoners, though the methods he was said to use were highly unorthodox. 

The Jackal did not seem concerned to press his advantage. All that he said was, "You didn't need to use your dagger on me, you know. Your skill goes beyond that." 

A warm wind whistled into the room, scattering the remains of the leaves; it stung the drying blood on Quentin-Andrew's cheek. Quentin-Andrew said slowly, "Your powers give you the ability to question prisoners without use of instruments. Everyone knows that." 

"It is a technique that is not dependent on my godly powers; all of my thieves are taught it. I could teach it to you." 

Quentin-Andrew narrowed his eyes against the glare of the moonshine. "In exchange for what promise?" he asked. 

The Jackal shook his head. "In exchange for no promise. It would be an answer to the question you failed to ask." He added more softly, "When a darkness lies within a man, sometimes the only way to let light shine within him is to break open that man's spirit. Once the spirit is broken, you can then bring light into the man and mend what you have broken. Those are the two skills I teach to my thieves: how to break a man's spirit with words only, and how to mend that spirit with more words. Once you have practiced the second skill, you will understand why you have been forced to undergo the torture that you live in, the torture so deep that you have shielded yourself from its effects." The Jackal gestured toward the ledge of the unshuttered window. "Come sit with me; I will explain to you this form of questioning." 

Quentin-Andrew walked forward, squinting his eyes against the light that the Jackal was walking through. He was thinking that this visit was twice worth the trouble he had taken to come here. Yet even as he sat at the Jackal's side and listened with obedient attention to what he was being told, he felt the contempt inside him grow to a peak. 

Was the Jackal really fool enough to think that Quentin-Andrew would ever use the second part of what he was being taught?


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

"The subcommander wishes to know whether you have placed him on the table yet." 

The voice drifted through the darkness, a darkness that had become more pronounced as the hours passed. Quentin-Andrew's spirit was focussed upon the sensations in his wrists and in his chest. He barely heard the words spoken at the door by the young orderly. 

Randal's voice was cool in reply. "Tell the subcommander that if he is dissatisfied with my skills, he is welcome to take over the work himself." 

The orderly was persistent. "The subcommander says that a full day ought to be enough time in which to extract the information. He says that the Northern Army may attack at any moment." 

"Bern," said Randal with frigid politeness, "who am I questioning?" 

During the pause that followed, Quentin-Andrew tried to twist his body into a new position and immediately regretted the action. Only by biting his lip was he able to prevent sound from being emitted. 

"The Lieutenant," said the orderly finally. "The chief torturer of the Northern Army." 

"And how long, Bern, do you think it takes to break a man like that?" 

This time there was no reply. Quentin-Andrew felt moisture trail down his arms, and inwardly cursed Randal for his skill. It had taken Quentin-Andrew only an hour to discover why Randal used leather straps for his bindings: as the wrists grew wet, the moisture constricted the leather, causing the wrists to sweat and bleed all the more. It was a subtle touch, a refined touch, and Quentin-Andrew had grown to appreciate that Randal was adept at such niceties. 

The door to the cell was closing. Quentin-Andrew waited until he heard the click of the latch falling before he let out his breath, along with the sound that had been suppressed inside. Nearby, one of Randal's assistants sighed in his sleep. It was past midnight now, and all four of the inhabitants of this room were weary from the proceedings. 

Randal's hand touched the back of Quentin-Andrew's head, and a moment later the cloth that had bound Quentin-Andrew's eyes for the past day fell free. Knowing as he did the stages of questioning, Quentin-Andrew did not take this as a good sign. 

"Gasps," said Randal abruptly, as though he had guessed Quentin-Andrew's thoughts. "Gasps, and then moans, followed by tears, sobs, curses, screams, pleas for the questioning to stop, more screams, protests that one doesn't know the information – and then the breaking." He leaned against the dungeon wall that was warm from the leaping fire nearby and added reflectively, "The protests were a mistake, of course. You know as well as I do that if a prisoner is going to claim he doesn't know the information, he needs to do so at the beginning of the questioning, while he can still craft a skillful lie. Waiting until the end never works." 

Randal's eyes were blood-veined with sleeplessness, but he did not waver his gaze from his prisoner's face. Quentin-Andrew began to turn away his face, a movement which ended abruptly as the back of Randal's hand collided with his cheek. This time, the sound that Quentin-Andrew made caused Randal's other assistant to murmur in his sleep; then the cell fell into silence once more. Quentin-Andrew had heard the clatter earlier when the dungeon was emptied of its last inhabitants. He suspected that this had been done at Randal's request. 

Acting as though the slap had not taken place, Randal said mildly, "But of course we can't allow anyone to know how easy it is to break the mighty Lieutenant. It would be harmful for the reputation of all of us in this profession if it were publicized how quickly men such as us can be broken. Though I must admit that you are a special case, Lieutenant. I don't believe that, in all the years I've been working at this trade, I've ever met a soldier who is as sensitive to pain as you are." 

Quentin-Andrew had been waiting for these words for a day and a night – had been waiting for them, indeed, for many years. The anticipation of this moment did not seem to help. Quentin-Andrew closed his eyes against his torturer's look of frank pity. A moment later the blow of Randal's hand against his other cheek persuaded him that this was a poor decision. He jerked his eyes open and looked over at Randal, who was caressing in his left hand the instrument he had been using when they were interrupted. 

"What I don't understand," Randal continued in a conversational manner, "is why you are holding out. You know what the end will be as well as I do, Lieutenant; you know that a man with your limitations is destined to break. So why, I have been asking myself, are you prolonging the pain?" 

Quentin-Andrew had been asking himself that as well. For the first time in many hours, he dragged his spirit past the torment to a full awareness of Randal, sweat-soaked like Quentin-Andrew. Serious-faced now, his gaze one of painful concentration, the young man laid his instrument carefully aside on the disused table and said, "Is it out of loyalty to the Commander? But that would be foolish; you know that the Commander is not the sort of man who would have so much as spoken to you in peacetime. He finds you useful these days and seeks to protect you and keep your allegiance for that reason, but as for feeling affection for you – no, you are not that foolish." His statement was flat; he was reading what he wished to know in Quentin-Andrew's expression. 

"Perhaps," Randal said slowly, "you are hoping that, if you show honor in this cell, the gods will forgive you for all that you have done over the years. But truly, Lieutenant, I cannot imagine that your wits have been destroyed to that degree. You know what fate awaits men like us – and you know that, if there was ever a moment when the gods could have forgiven you, it was lost eight years ago." 

Quentin-Andrew, keeping his gaze carefully fixed on his torturer's blood-stained hands, thought to himself that Randal could not know the full truth of what he said. He could not know, though everyone in the Three Lands knew what the Lieutenant had done eight years before in the dungeon of the Chara's palace. 

The only outward price which Quentin-Andrew had paid for that night was the loss of his patrol unit, since the Commander had quickly assessed the mood of Quentin-Andrew's men when all eleven of them had arrived at the Commander's quarters afterwards and stood in grim silence. Quentin-Andrew's second-in-command had been elevated to patrol lieutenant; Quentin-Andrew had been released from his patrol duties to take on work of greater importance to the Northern Army, as the Commander had tactfully expressed it. 

That much the world knew. The world also knew the price that the Commander had paid for that night: the loss of his remaining supporters in Koretia, and the determination of the Koretians and Daxions from that night forward to fight the Commander to their deaths. Without that night, the Commander might have taken Koretia with little struggle. After that night, the Commander had been faced with the choice of denying his involvement in what had happened or subduing the southern peninsula by ruthless force. 

To the Commander's credit, he had never denied what he had done. By contrast, Quentin-Andrew had added to his iniquity by suppressing one critical piece of information about that night. Not even the Commander knew how that night had ended; not even the Commander knew of the terrible, unforgivable act that had served as an immutable seal to the deeds of Quentin-Andrew's life. 

Only Quentin-Andrew knew of that act and its consequences, and his knowledge of what he had done had cut into his spirit every day for the past eight years, like the precise stabs of a thigh-dagger. But Randal could not know that. 

Indeed, Randal was now saying, "Oh, but the ways of the gods are mysterious. If I were to tell you that I knew their judgment upon you, you would laugh in my face. Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps the Jackal will extend his hand to you—" 

The soft breathing of Randal's assistants was the only sound in the cell. Quentin-Andrew felt Randal's hand lift his chin. His eyes met Randal's. 

"That is why you are holding out, isn't it, Lieutenant?" the torturer said softly. "You are trying to postpone that moment. You imagine that what you experience here will be less than what awaits you there. But Lieutenant. . ." His voice grew softer still. "You have forgotten one important fact. You need not accept the fire." 

So there, like a blade hidden in the palm of a hand, was the disclosure of the final temptation Quentin-Andrew had been awaiting – the temptation he had been awaiting all his life. There seemed no reason that he should hold out against that temptation. 

"We owe the gods nothing," Randal said with quiet intensity. " _Nothing._ They made us what we are and abandoned us. They deserve nothing from us, and no gifts they might grant us will make up for what they have done to us. Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise." 

And Quentin-Andrew knew that, whatever lies his torturer might have told during their time together, Randal was now speaking nothing more than the simple truth. 

o—o—o

The winter winds of Emor were mild in comparison to those found in the mountains of the northern dominions or on the frozen wastes of the mainland, but Quentin-Andrew, born at the southern edge of Emor, had never adjusted to the colder climes of the world. For that reason, he was grateful to find that this first evening back in the camp of the Northern Army would not be spent in the chill activity of patrolling the perimeter of the camp. Instead, he was sitting in relative warmth in the smallest of the camp's huts. 

The man seated across from him, who had so little concern for the weather that he had tossed his cloak back from his shoulders, was taking an unusual amount of time to formulate his thoughts. When he finally raised his forest green eyes to look at Quentin-Andrew, his voice was quiet. "I'm glad to see you looking so well after your long convalescence, Lieutenant. Your. . . injuries were so great that I was not sure that you would recover. And without your help, I had grave worries as to the future of the Northern Army." 

One thing that could be said about the Commander of the Northern Army, Quentin-Andrew thought, was that he always meant what he said. He might omit information; he had certainly skipped lightly over his decision to isolate the Lieutenant while he was recovering from his injuries. This had been done for no special reason – no reason, that is, except that Quentin-Andrew had been in great pain during that time. Due to the isolation, only the Commander and the tight-lipped physician in attendance had learned how the Northern Army's torturer reacted to pain. 

Yet if the Commander said that Quentin-Andrew's absence had endangered the Northern Army, he meant it. Another soldier might have reacted to this praise by stammering thanks or hotly denying the honor. Quentin-Andrew simply nodded silently. 

The Commander, having passed over the most delicate part of his speech, grew more brisk in voice as he turned to accept a cup of wine from his orderly. "Now that you're better, I'd be interested in hearing in more detail the exact circumstances of the attack." 

"There is little to tell, sir," Quentin-Andrew replied, but waited until the orderly had handed him his wine and left. Then he said, "I sighted an intruder, and he attacked me." 

The Commander gave a half-smile. "A simple tale. You don't mention that you defended yourself while an arrow was sticking out of your leg and after the attacker had slashed down at your chest with his sword. It is the arrow that interests me. It's not the typical weapon of an Emorian soldier. Was he a Daxion?" 

"You saw his corpse." 

"I saw that he was light-skinned and wearing an Emorian uniform. There was nothing to indicate he might have come from the south?" 

"Nothing, sir. He cursed me in Emorian when I killed him, if that's of any help." 

"It's a relief, at any rate." The Commander leaned back in his chair, raising his cup to his lips. The lamplight cast shadows upon the battle-scars on his hand. "I need not tell you, Lieutenant, that it will be hard enough to defeat Emor in this war without worrying about additional allies. If Daxis becomes alarmed at our progress and joins with Emor . . . Well, we are still a comparatively small force in comparison with the Chara's. Fortunately, Daxis seems oblivious at this point to the possible consequences of our conquest of Emor. The gods who remain silent know that I have no quarrel with the Daxions, but if we should ever decide to cross the border into Koretia . . ." He left the sentence unfinished and set his cup down onto the documents that littered the table in front of him. "So he was not a Daxion soldier. Then why the arrows and bow? Those are not the weapons of a spy." 

"No, sir. They are the weapons of an assassin." 

The Commander's eyes, relaxed until now, grew suddenly sharp. In typical fashion, he waited only a breath's span before saying in a matter-of-fact manner, "For me?" 

"I don't think so, sir. You were in battle that evening, as the Emorians knew." He paused before adding, "When I first marked him, the soldier was headed in the direction of my unit's hut." 

_"Dolan?"_ The Commander's voice rose, and his hand suddenly gripped the papers. In the next moment, his voice was level as he said, "You protect your men well, Lieutenant. I'm sure that you would have been sorry to lose your sublieutenant." 

Quentin-Andrew smiled inwardly. The Commander was the one man in the Northern Army who kept up the pretense that Perry-John's son was nothing more than a lesser official who occasionally advised the Commander on matters concerning the southern lands of the Great Peninsula. To everyone else in the Northern Army, Dolan was the Commander's boy, the favored young man who had no talents other than a radiant worship of the Commander and a gift for listening attentively to the Commander as he thought through his strategies aloud. 

If there was any soldier in the Northern Army who was more necessary to the Commander than Quentin-Andrew, it was Dolan, but this fact could not be commented upon in the Commander's presence. So Quentin-Andrew replied, "The Chara knows Dolan's value, sir. Since the time that you granted Dolan refuge from the Emorians, he has lent legitimacy to the Northern Army's claim to be more than a rebel army. And if you should enter Koretia accompanied by the son of the heir confirmed of that land . . ." Like the Commander, he allowed his sentence to remain unfinished. 

"Yes." The Commander's eyes had taken on an expression that Quentin-Andrew recognized, a look combining determination with vision. "Yes, I have thought of that much during the past six years of this war. With the Jackal dead from old age and Perry-John dead from chill-fever, the only legitimate claimant to the throne can be Dolan, and he is clearly unsuited to be a ruler. He knows this himself. He has hinted more than once that he would support me if I claimed Koretia's throne, and his support would make a great difference in whether the Koretians accepted me. But it would still mean war. If we reached that far south, Emor would be ours and would be in no position to dispute my claim, but Daxis surely would. And I do not make war lightly. War is a terrible thing, Lieutenant; it brings the horrors of destruction and fear and torture—" 

He stopped abruptly, as though suddenly aware that he was condemning the evils of torture to the wrong person. After a moment he smiled and said, "And what do I have to offer Koretia that any other leader could not offer that land? Only this: that for the first time in the history of the Great Peninsula, two of the Three Lands would be willingly united under one ruler – for I have no doubt that, in the end, the Emorians will accept me as their ruler. After all of the heinous acts that the Chara has committed during this war – this latest assassination attempt is the least of his crimes – they must see the need to start over, to begin afresh with a new ruler, new laws to replace the corrupt ones, new customs to wipe away the evils of past years. I will fully support any man who has the ability to bring about this rebirth, but until such a man arrives, I cannot let Emor suffer under a tyrant, nor can I let Koretia be destroyed by rulerless anarchy. To bring Koretia and Emor closer together, to take another step in creating a single law for the whole of the Great Peninsula—" 

"Yes, sir," said Quentin-Andrew. "Would you like me to send Dolan to you now?" 

The Commander, who had risen to his feet in mid-speech and was striding up and down the small chamber with his eyes still full of visions, stopped abruptly and looked over at Quentin-Andrew, sitting motionless with no expression on his face. After a moment, the Commander laughed and reseated himself. 

"I take your point," he said. "I will reserve my flowery speeches on the destiny of the Three Lands for when Dolan arrives this evening. I know that your concerns are more practical. In a word: your unit has captured a dozen intruders while you've been gone, and all of those prisoners need to be questioned. But you needn't start work on that until tomorrow. You've had a hard recovery, and the shapeless gods know that I owe you much for this sacrifice. As does Dolan, of course, but perhaps this evens out the debt you owe him." 

"Sir?" Quentin-Andrew's voice was cool. 

The Commander raised his eyebrows. "I'm referring to what you told me shortly after you were wounded. . . . You don't remember this?" 

"No, sir. I was unconscious at the time." 

"Not the entire time." The Commander's hand tapped the papers lightly, the sound swallowed by the winds moaning about the hut and by the crackle as the orderly added fuel to a fire in the adjoining chamber. The Commander's gaze remained fixed on Quentin-Andrew's. After a while, he said, "Well, it's a story that you should know, if you no longer remember it. Dolan, you see, was left to watch over you while I was being fetched from the battlefield. Aside from your captain, no one else knew that you had been wounded. You were taken to the Blue Tent – you remember that?" This as Quentin-Andrew shifted his feet slightly. 

"No, sir." He had been reacting, in fact, to the words "taken to the Blue Tent," a phrase that was said to strike terror into any prisoner who had the misfortune to possess information that was of value to the Commander. The phrase, Quentin-Andrew well knew, was now regarded by inhabitants of the Three Lands to be as terrible as "May the Jackal eat his dead" and other such curses. Quentin-Andrew had never expected to hear the phrase used about himself. The usage made him feel uneasy. 

"Your workplace seemed the best place in which to keep you in isolation for a short time," the Commander explained. "No one visits there aside from yourself. Unfortunately, on this particular evening, three of your men became drunk and goaded each other into visiting the Blue Tent to see what lay there. They thought that you were still on patrol. At the entrance to the tent they found Dolan—" 

He stopped abruptly. His orderly had entered the room, holding a sheaf of papers. The Commander shuffled through them, nodded in approval, and said, "Let me know when Dolan arrives, Marcus. Otherwise, no more interruptions until I have finished with the Lieutenant." 

The orderly murmured an acknowledgment, casting a nervous glance in the direction of Quentin-Andrew. Quentin-Andrew noticed it in the same way in which a man notices that the sun has risen once more. The Commander waited until the orderly had left the chamber before saying, "Dolan judged it better that you not be disturbed. You were . . . in pain at the time, you see. He defended the tent against their entrance." 

No trace of a smile appeared on Quentin-Andrew's face, but the Commander smiled himself, saying, "Not in that way. We both know that Dolan couldn't use his blade against another man if his life depended on it. No, what happened was that he cut his palm with his dagger and took a blood vow to kill himself if any man entered the tent." The Commander paused, pushed his cloak further back against the chair as though he were smothered by midsummer heat, and said quietly, "You told me that you believed he would have carried out his threat." 

In a voice not noticeably warmer than a Marcadian mountain in winter, Quentin-Andrew said, "The men left." 

"The men left indeed. Dolan, in his rare moments of stubbornness, can be very persuasive, as I know to my own cost. More than once he has convinced me to soften some harsh course I had planned to take in this war, and always, I believe, to the advantage of the Northern Army. He may never be a ruler, Lieutenant, but a ruler with that young man by his side would be beloved by the gods." The Commander suddenly sent his fist crashing down onto the table, causing the papers to flee to the floor. "A stubborn young man but a gentle one, as peaceful as a child." His voice grew hard. "When I finally meet with the Chara, Lieutenant, I will not forget what he tried to do to Dolan. I swear that to the invisible gods." 

His fist remained white-knuckled for a moment more. Then he loosened his hand in order to pick up the wine cup, which had spilled red wild-berry wine over the papers that did not escape in time. With a sigh, he said, "But that will have to wait until we reach the Emorian capital, and whether we reach the Emorian capital depends on whether you remain well-rested." He smiled at Quentin-Andrew. "Your work, Lieutenant, remains vital to the Northern Army's survival. Without the information you obtain, we are blind to the Chara's schemes. Little though I like having to use such methods against prisoners, I trust that the gods who judge me will remember the number of lives that are saved each time we go into battle knowing what our enemy's plans are. I want this war to be short; I want the Great Peninsula to lie in peace once more." 

He stood up. As Quentin-Andrew rose from his chair, his flesh aching, the Commander walked over and laid his hand on Quentin-Andrew's shoulder. "Welcome back, Lieutenant. I'm sure that your men are celebrating your return now." 

And that, Quentin-Andrew thought darkly as he struggled his way toward his unit's hut through the evening wind, was the closest the Commander had ever come to telling him a lie. 

The patrol unit's hut stood at the edge of the camp, separate from the other buildings. On this moonless night, it was as effectively hidden as though it were cloaked in mist. Quentin-Andrew passed a slender figure stumbling through the dark: Dolan, on his way to spend time with the Commander. They crossed paths without speaking; Dolan's vision was not keen enough for him to see which soldier he was passing. He would have made an easy target for the assassin, Quentin-Andrew reflected, and his memory lingered for a moment on an episode from his own past. Then he shrugged the memory away. He was oath-bound to the Commander, and though oaths meant nothing to him, the work suited him well enough. There was no point in worrying over whether his work in the past had been more pleasurable. 

He paused at the edge of the hut doorway. The door was closed against the biting wind, but through the cracks in the wood came light and warmth and voices. The day patrol was off-duty now, and its members were exchanging candid remarks. Usually they had a lookout posted to ensure that Quentin-Andrew did not hear such remarks. 

". . . will ask for a transfer, I tell you." The voice was deep and crisp, belonging to Meleager, the best swordsman in the unit. "These past two months have been like a release from the pits of destruction. I had forgotten what my life was like when I didn't have to be forever on my guard, fearing his approach." 

"Are you converting to the Koretian religion, Meleager?" Quentin-Andrew could hear the grin in the voice of Northcott, his Second Blade. Like the Commander and most of Quentin-Andrew's men, Northcott was a native of Emor's northern dominion of Marcadia. "'Pits of destruction' is putting it mildly, don't you think? I'd say it was more like the ice prisons at the end of the world." 

"Then you agree with me." 

"The shapeless gods above, who wouldn't? But if you think you'll be safer from the Lieutenant if you request a release from his unit . . . Well, I'll ensure that your mother doesn't see your corpse. The sight would undoubtedly cause her heart to fail." 

There was a pause; Quentin-Andrew pulled his cloak closer against the knife's edge of the wind. Then Orvin, the oldest guard in the unit, said, "This is ridiculous. We're scaring each other like nursery boys exchanging tales of death spirits. We all know that the Lieutenant won't lay his hands on anyone unless the Commander orders it, so we're all safe." 

"Are we?" asked Northcott reflectively. "I wonder. At the rate that the Commander is purging his ranks of traitors, I wonder whether any of us is safe, however loyal we may be." 

A pregnant pause followed. Someone tossed fuel into the fire, causing scented smoke to drift through the door-cracks. Then Meleager said, "Dolan is safe." 

There were a few chuckles. Xylon, the youngest guard, spoke for the first time: "Dolan likes the Lieutenant. I wonder why?" 

"Oh, Dolan," said Northcott, in a voice that did not even carry contempt – the subject was of too little importance for that. "Dull-witted Dolan likes everyone. If a barbarian raised his blade over Dolan's head, Dolan would give him a leaf bouquet." 

The tension was broken by laughter. A moment later, the laughter stopped abruptly, and a silence deeper than death followed. Quentin-Andrew had chosen this moment to enter the hut. 

Two of the guards, the ones who had not spoken, were in a corner by themselves, exchanging sips of wine from the same cup. Revis and Edel were long-time wine-friends, and they had a strong instinct for survival which caused them to avoid taking part in such conversations. The other four guards looked as though they had just stripped their bodies of all armor and placed themselves directly in front of the Chara's vanguard. Xylon, blushing violently, ducked his head and began to polish the sword on his lap; Orvin gave a soft moan and raised his eyes upward toward the gods; Meleager turned as white as a blizzard and clutched the flue-pipe, ignoring the heat under his hand. Only Northcott, who had been caught in this situation so many times that he forever carried the look of a man who is under a death sentence, had the strength to rise and approach Quentin-Andrew. Without a word, he handed Quentin-Andrew the patrol unit ring. 

Quentin-Andrew slipped on the ring of his authority, allowing his gaze to drift again toward the men frozen before him. He said to Northcott, "The reports." 

"Over there, sir." Northcott gestured toward a reed table at the far corner of the hut. Quentin-Andrew walked over to it, pausing on the way to ladle himself a cup of wine. By the time he sat down at the table and began reading through the reports that Northcott had prepared in his absence, a vigorous exchange of wine had begun taking place at the other end of the hut. Xylon was sharing wine with Orvin, Orvin was sharing wine with Northcott, and Northcott was pressing his wine upon Meleager, who seemed unaware that his hand was beginning to singe. Quentin-Andrew, his nose tickled by the familiar smell of burnt flesh, smiled inwardly. One of his credits as an army official, he thought to himself, was that he inspired strong friendships between his men. His very presence guaranteed that the other guards would cling together in a desperate fashion. 

His own wine cup remained untouched by anyone but himself. The minutes drifted by, then the hours. There were many reports to read, and Quentin-Andrew always had a tendency to linger over the reports of how prisoners were captured. Gradually he became aware that the guards, now preparing for sleep, had broken their silence. 

"I knew a man," Meleager said loudly, "who was wounded in five places, but he made no sound when the doctor sewed his wounds." 

"That's a small story," said Orvin, keeping his gaze carefully fixed on the blanket he was unfolding. "I knew a man who laughed when his leg was sawed off." 

"Of course," said Meleager, his gaze flicking toward Quentin-Andrew, "I'm sure there's at least one soldier in this camp who could put those men to shame." 

Quentin-Andrew finished reading the reports, turned the stack on its head, and began reading the first report again. 

"There's no doubt of that," Northcott contributed. "It need hardly be said." 

Xylon opened his mouth, glanced at the Lieutenant, and contented himself with nodding hard. Quentin-Andrew, having pretended to read the first page, turned to the second. The room seemed to be growing colder by the moment; he wondered whether he should add fuel to the fire. 

At that moment, warmth entered the room. 

It came, oddly enough, from the door opening to the howling wind outside. Quentin-Andrew did not need to raise his eyes to know who stood at the threshold, listening silently as the other guards continued their boasting. After a minute, Quentin-Andrew raised his eyes, glanced at the figure in the doorway, and then looked down at the page in front of him. The room was quite warm now. 

The other guards did not appear to agree. One of them took notice of Dolan and shouted an abrupt command. Dolan was above the rank of all of Quentin-Andrew's men, but he quickly complied with the order to close the door. After a moment more, the Commander's boy walked diffidently over to the fire-pot where the wine was warming and scooped out a cup for himself. Quentin-Andrew, his gaze fixed upon the third page, could see Dolan as though he was gazing straight at him. He knew that Dolan was hesitating, wondering whether to offer his cup to Quentin-Andrew. He had done so five times now . . . or was it six? Whatever qualities Dolan might lack as a soldier, he was certainly persistent, even in battles ordained to be lost. 

". . . tortured for two days and never spoke a word . . ." Revis, evidently feeling that he was on safe ground, was offering his own contribution to the covert praise of the Lieutenant. Quentin-Andrew, turning two pages in a row, felt rather than saw Dolan withdraw. No offer of wine tonight, then; perhaps no offer of wine ever again. After all, Dolan had been free of the Lieutenant for two months, and before then he had seen the Lieutenant reacting to his pain. . . . Quentin-Andrew skipped to the final page. 

Then something made Quentin-Andrew turn his head. He saw the scene as he had seen it many times before: the six men of the day patrol clustered together in a companionable group, while Dolan sat apart from the rest, his head bowed as he gazed blankly at the table before him. He sipped at his wine, seemingly oblivious of the isolation in which the others had imprisoned him. There was a faint smile on his face, and the hair fell in front of his eyes, which were forever full of dreams. He raised his head— 

Quentin-Andrew caught the motion before it was complete and turned his own gaze back to the paper in front of him. But in the edge of his vision he could see Dolan bite his lip as he gazed at the Lieutenant. The boy swallowed, and then bowed his head over his cup. 

His smile never faded. 

The boasts nearby were growing larger; now the man had survived three days of torture without talking. Abruptly, Quentin-Andrew rose, his half-emptied cup in hand, and walked toward the men. They scattered at the sight of him, like an army in retreat. Only Dolan remained sitting at the trestle table, oblivious of the danger he was in. His head was still bowed; he was staring at his empty wine-cup. 

The other guards had turned their backs. None of them saw the moment when Quentin-Andrew carefully placed his cup within reach of Dolan. He turned then, and began walking toward the cold end of the hut as rapidly as he could. He was therefore halfway across the hut by the time the warmth entered his body. 

By then, it was too late to turn back.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

The dungeon of the Jackal's palace was quiet now. In the corner, curled upon a mattress, Randal's assistants slept again. The empty wine-flasks beside them told, even more than the troubled sounds they made in their sleep, that the events of the past day had proved too much for their stomachs. Now one of them cried out, as though he were the man being questioned. 

Randal was also asleep, his head cradled in his arms for the first time in two days, but his sleep was untroubled. By turning his head, Quentin-Andrew could see the young torturer, sitting next to the table with his face lying near his prisoner's face. His expression was relaxed, and his hand was curled gently around the hilt of his thigh-dagger, as a child cradles its doll. 

Only Quentin-Andrew was awake. Partly this was because of the strain now upon his body and the anticipation of what was to come. In this respect, as in many others, Randal had imitated his mentor: if time permitted, Quentin-Andrew often laid his prisoner upon the table, tightened the cords about his wrists and ankles, and let the prisoner remain there for a while, contemplating the effects that the machine would soon have upon him. Fear broke more prisoners than pain, and Randal knew by now the extent of his prisoner's fear. 

Partly, though, Quentin-Andrew was kept awake by the noise: the faint noise travelling through the door, of shouts and cries and metal clashing. Closer and closer the sounds were coming, and it was with no great surprise that he heard sudden hammering on the door. 

The assistants jerked awake, staring first at Randal and then at the door. Randal had raised his head and was listening. Then, with a smooth and unhurried motion, he walked to the door and lifted the latch. 

The subcommander's orderly stood in the doorway. "The Northern Army will soon break through our defenses," he said without preliminary. "The subcommander says that you may leave here and take up arms to defend yourselves." 

For a moment – an unguarded moment – an unfamiliar expression passed over Randal's face: it was of intense relief. The look vanished, though, as Randal turned slowly toward his prisoner. He walked back steadily to the table where his prisoner lay, trussed and shivering under the dying fire. Then he leaned over Quentin-Andrew and said in a soft voice that did not carry to the door, "What would _you_ do?" 

Quentin-Andrew turned his face, but it was too late; Randal had read the answer there. The torturer said briskly to the orderly, "Tell the subcommander I'm staying. I may still be able to extract information that will allow us to win this battle." 

"Do whatever you like," snapped the orderly. "I've no time to carry messages." And he was gone, leaving the door open and the sounds of battle driving into the cell like a volley of arrows. 

The assistants looked uneasily at Randal; they had already risen and armed themselves. Randal glanced their way and said, "I won't need you any more. You may join the battle." He waited until they had scurried from the room; then he walked back to the door. This time he slid the great iron bar into place, as though sealing a tomb. 

Quentin-Andrew's gaze had travelled away from Randal. He was staring at a series of weights, neatly stacked in the corner, all carefully labelled with numbers. By the time he looked back, Randal was standing beside him again. The young torturer pulled up the stool he had been sitting upon before, settled himself onto it, and stared down at Quentin-Andrew silently for a moment before speaking. 

"The borderland," he said. "You're from the borderland – your accent tells that. One of our spies, a native of the borderland, approached close enough to the Northern Army's camp to hear you talking. He reported that your accent is of the Emorian borderland. So you're Emorian-born, but you didn't stay there." 

His hand, still holding the thigh-dagger, travelled down to Quentin-Andrew's chest. As the blade touched his skin, Quentin-Andrew drew in his breath sharply, but Randal did nothing more than trace a pattern lightly. "A mainland tattoo. You've lived on the mainland, been initiated into one of the barbarian tribes there – perhaps that was where you learned your profession? I think you may have visited Daxis as well; one or two of your skills have a Daxion flavor to them. Whether or not you did, I know that you've been to Koretia before." 

Again his dagger moved. This time he caused his prisoner's breath to stop short by laying the flat of his blade upon Quentin-Andrew's scarred right cheek. "The claw-marks of the Jackal," Randal said softly. "What did you do, Lieutenant, to make the god-man so angry? More to the point, how did you survive that encounter? What caused the Jackal to spare your life? Did you fool the Jackal into thinking that you would reform your ways? Or did he simply say, as the priests always say, that the gods can turn evil into good? If so, it's lucky that he died before he saw to what use you put your talents." 

The dagger moved. Quentin-Andrew tried to see where Randal had placed it, but he could not find the strength to lift his head. Randal's hand was beyond his sight, somewhere at the other end of the table. Quentin-Andrew closed his eyes and tried to draw steady breaths. 

Quietly through the darkness drifted Randal's voice. "That's all I know about you, Lieutenant – that's all anybody knows about you. I could discover the rest. You'd tell me anything at this point. You'd tell me who you are, and what your deepest wish is, and what your deepest questions are. Your deepest fears I already know. I could flay open your spirit and learn what lay inside you." 

A heaviness was settling upon Quentin-Andrew: not the tug of the weights, but merciful sleep entering upon him. In the next moment, the drowsiness was shocked away from him as his body tried with futile desperation to arc away from the pain. His breath, whistling in too quickly, ended in a choke that scourged his chest. 

When he opened his eyes, he could see the thigh-dagger once more. It was resting in Randal's palm, glistening with the small amount of blood that the torturer had drawn. As though there had been no pause in the conversation, Randal said, "But I won't pull that information from you, Lieutenant. You know why, don't you? At this point in the questioning, to change my goals. . . Well, it would be like a bard suddenly turning his ballad into a drinking song. It would be crude." 

He leaned forward and carefully wiped the bloody blade dry on Quentin-Andrew's hair. "That's what the others don't understand," he said. "They think that men like us are barbarians, no better than mountain-pass murderers. They believe that any man could do what we do if he were vicious and heartless. And they're wrong – oh, so wrong. Why, they might as well say that any gutter-child could sing as well as a bard. We're artists, Lieutenant – you and me and a few others like us. If we were simple murderers, we couldn't do what we do: patiently and carefully break a man, dancing down the thin line that keeps the prisoner alive long enough to allow the information to be extracted. Our work takes more self-discipline than the labor of most soldiers. To go as far as the work requires, but no farther. To enjoy the pain – for without enjoyment we could not last in our profession – but not to allow our enjoyment to overcome our sense of duty. And to serve the work – ah, that's the part that even our employers don't understand. They don't grasp the difference between a murderer's careless stab and the delicate and beautiful curve of a wound—" 

He waited until Quentin-Andrew had subsided to shuddering gasps, and then leaned forward to wipe the blade once more. "We're bards of pain," he said, "and of all the bards in the world, you are the greatest. To those who have the ears to hear, your song has a richness that will make it immortal. Generations from now, men in our profession will still speak of the Lieutenant and of the beauty of his craft." 

His hand travelled under the table. When it rose again, it was no longer holding the dagger. Leaning forward, Randal placed his head on the table beside Quentin-Andrew's and said in a low voice, "You know, don't you? You know that's why I've been so gentle with you. I could have placed you on this table on the first day and broken you. I could have hung you from the ceiling or shattered your bones or done a dozen other things to make you talk. But I did nothing like that – nothing that would cause you permanent harm. This—" His hand touched his prisoner's hand for a moment, and Quentin-Andrew heard himself whimper. "This will heal; everything I've done to you up to this point will heal. And do you know why, Lieutenant? I have no orders to execute you. That's the truth. After we're through, I can release you, and you can continue your exquisite work. In fact—" 

Randal's lips brushed Quentin-Andrew's ear. In a whisper, he said, "You can be better than you were before, Lieutenant. You can be better because I'll be with you. Oh, I know that I can never be what you are, but I have a few talents of my own. Take me with you – as your partner if you find me worthy, otherwise as your apprentice. Together we will be the most powerful and creative force this world has ever known. The gods themselves will not be able to hold out against us. Let me join my song with yours, Lieutenant. All that is necessary is that you give me the information I need in order to release you." 

Randal raised his head. After a while, Quentin-Andrew turned his face toward the young man, waiting in silence in the darkening cell. The heaviness lay upon Quentin-Andrew's spirit now. 

"You're good at this," he whispered. 

Randal smiled. It was a smile of pure joy, like that of a boy who witnesses his dreams come alive. He moved behind Quentin-Andrew and placed his hand momentarily on his prisoner's head. 

"Think about what I've said," he murmured. "I don't want to hurt you any more." 

And then he moved away from the table, and Quentin-Andrew felt the darkness enter his spirit. 

o—o—o

The dungeon of the Chara's palace was widely admitted by its guests to possess a certain beauty not found in other dungeons of the Three Lands. This was due largely to the fact that Emor, being a wealthy land, had gradually expanded its palace over the years, so that the chambers of the original palace, built seven centuries before, were now used to house prisoners. The old council chamber formed the main cell, the Chara's former residence was the luxurious quarters of the dungeon-keeper, and the Court of Judgment, appropriately enough, was the main torture cell. Simple yet tasteful stone carvings still decorated the lintels and cornerposts, while the platform on which the Chara's throne had once stood was used as a racking table. All in all, a visit to this cell was an aesthetic delight. 

The prisoner whose hands were presently chained above him, against the cell wall, appeared not to appreciate the privilege he was undergoing. He was, in several respects, an unusual prisoner. To start with, he was clothed, and his flesh was unmarked. No search had been done on him for weapons, and even if he had been carrying a weapon, no struggle would have taken place to disarm him. He answered all questions in a low voice, but with a quick obedience usually found only in prisoners faced with the table. The only element which made him look the same as other prisoners usually questioned in this place was that his body was bathed in sweat, causing his skin to glow in the firelight. Quentin-Andrew, standing nearby, thought to himself that he had never seen such a beautiful sight as Dolan under torture. 

"No one will come, Dolan," he told the boy softly. "No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction." 

It was a statement he had made to many prisoners over the years, but it had never been truer than now. Dolan possessed only two living friends; one had sent him to this place, and the other now stood before him, administering the torture. 

Dolan lifted his head slowly to look up at Quentin-Andrew. No crushed hope showed in his expression; no hope had existed there from the moment he had realized what would be done to him. He had been with the Northern Army for eight years; he knew Quentin-Andrew too well. The cups of wine they had exchanged were forgotten. 

Yet Quentin-Andrew knew that he had forged a valuable tool during the past four years, a tool which he could now use to break the boy. Leaning close to Dolan, he said softly, "I could help you, you know. I could save you from this place." 

Now twenty-three, yet still boylike in appearance, Dolan showed no renewed hope or wistfulness or hostility. In a voice that was weary but clear, he said, "You can't. The Commander ordered you to execute me when you were through." 

Dull-witted Dolan, Quentin-Andrew reflected, was far from dull-witted in his better moments. In fact, the boy had talents far beyond that which most people guessed at, the most important of which was his perceptive spirit. He had perceived aspects of Quentin-Andrew that no one else in the Northern Army had suspected, not even the Commander. Dolan's great weakness – a weakness that would now cost him his life – was that he would not use this knowledge to defend himself. If he had done so – if he had taken his knowledge of Quentin-Andrew's weaknesses and had hammered at those cracks in his torturer – Quentin-Andrew was not at all sure which of them would have been the victor. Yet Dolan, who would kill himself at a moment's notice for the sake of a friend, would never think of attacking an enemy. That wasn't in his nature. 

Dolan's breath grew quicker; his gaze drifted past Quentin-Andrew toward the fire with its brand-irons, but his eyes were unfocussed. Quentin-Andrew, recognizing the signs, momentarily relished the vision of watching Dolan faint in his chains. He put the thought aside and reached into his thigh-pocket for the key to the manacles. He had told the Commander that the boy was too weak in body to endure physical torture; Dolan would undoubtedly die quickly before giving up the secret he was hiding. Quentin-Andrew could only use his special form of questioning, and even there he was constrained by the promise he had made to Dolan at the start that he would be gentle to him. 

Why he had made such a promise was not clear to him now, but it made no difference. "Gentle," as any of Quentin-Andrew's previous prisoners could have borne witness, was a relative term where the Lieutenant was concerned. 

Released from his manacles, Dolan sank to the floor and began gulping in air. In order to give Dolan time to recover from his sickness, without appearing to be merciful, Quentin-Andrew turned and walked over to the bottle of wine on the table. As he poured himself a cup, he reflected that it had taken a long time for his spirit's desire to be granted. 

He had known that this day would come from the moment that he had first seen Dolan watching him with wide and innocent eyes. The boy looked so much like Gareth that Quentin-Andrew had not even needed the exchange of wine to know that their relationship would end this way. What surprised him – what astonished him – was that he was doing this with the blessing of the gods. Or so he must conclude, for the Jackal had told him to follow the Commander's orders, and these were the Commander's orders. For once in Quentin-Andrew's life, perfect pleasure corresponded with perfect duty. 

For eight years he had followed the Commander; for eight years he had done only what he was ordered and no more. It was true that, as the years passed, the Commander's orders had grown harsher, as was natural, given the increased opposition to the Northern Army's conquest of Emor. Yet Quentin-Andrew knew well – and he supposed that the gods knew also – that during those years he had never questioned a prisoner to the degree that he would most have enjoyed. Not until tonight. It made no difference how gentle Quentin-Andrew was tonight. He knew that his very acceptance of this role was the keenest torture he could place upon Dolan. 

He turned his back to the table, with its straps and weights, and began sipping his wine as he looked down at Dolan, who was still crouched, gasping. This had been a heady day for Quentin-Andrew: first the final siege of the Emorian capital, then the sack of the Chara's palace, then the torture of selected prisoners to obtain knowledge of the location of all remaining Emorian law documents, and finally the lengthy and glorious beheading of several dozen lords and palace officials. The Chara, much to Quentin-Andrew's disappointment, had been executed by the Commander himself, but Quentin-Andrew had at least been able to witness the change in Dolan's face when the Commander, after not even the pretense of a trial, had swung the blade against his unarmed prisoner. Quentin-Andrew had known then what Dolan would do, but he had never expected the Commander to punish Dolan like this. Never had Quentin-Andrew expected such bliss. 

Dolan noticed for the first time that Quentin-Andrew was watching him. Always obedient, he struggled to his feet and stood waiting, his face a model for all prisoners on how to frame despair. At any moment now, thought Quentin-Andrew, the boy would reveal the information he had hidden from the Commander, the information that would allow the Northern Army to destroy for all time the memory of what Emor had been. The only wonder was that Dolan had held out as long as he had. All of Quentin-Andrew's experience with Gareth told him that fear drives out love, and now that Dolan's love of Quentin-Andrew was gone, he would have nothing to distract him from the pain he was undergoing. 

It was becoming yet more clear, Quentin-Andrew conceded, that the boy who could not be a warrior nonetheless had certain strengths that went unrecognized by the world. The Lieutenant had broken soldiers in half the time he had already spent with Dolan. 

Dolan was beginning to breathe heavily again. It would not do to have him waste time by falling to the floor unconscious. Stepping forward, Quentin-Andrew handed the cup he had been sipping to Dolan and watched as the boy drank the wild-berry wine. He wondered at what point Dolan would recognize the dark irony of the sharing that was taking place. 

Dolan's hand grew suddenly still. His head was bent forward, and Quentin-Andrew idly made wagers with himself as to what the boy's expression would be when he raised his face. Bitterness? No, Dolan would never look bitter. He took with deference what was given to him, caresses or blows. Anger? Dolan was capable of anger, but Quentin-Andrew doubted he would see that emotion now. Anger, if it was present, should have manifested itself long before this. Anguish? Yes, that was the only answer. Filled with hopelessness as Dolan was, the memory of their friendship could be nothing to him now but a torment. 

Dolan lifted his head. He was smiling. 

It was a weak smile, to be sure – the tentative smile given by a child who expects no smile in return, but who cannot keep from showing what he is feeling. For one moment, Quentin-Andrew searched Dolan's face for signs of renewed hope, but none existed. Dolan knew that Quentin-Andrew would continue the torture, he knew that the fear and pain and despair would continue, and that made no difference. The love was still there. To his dying moment, Dolan would regard Quentin-Andrew as his friend. 

It was then that Quentin-Andrew perceived how formidable an opponent he faced, and it was then that Quentin-Andrew began to suspect that he would not obtain the information for which he was searching. It was then too that Quentin-Andrew realized that the unarmed boy before him had been fighting him all along, in ways that neither Dolan nor Quentin-Andrew had recognized. 

For a moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he heard someone sob, and that person was not Dolan. 

Then darkness penetrated his spirit once more, and he considered the boy in a cool manner. It made no difference whether the boy yielded his information or not. Dolan's death was certain. Once dead, the boy would have no chance to pass on his secret to others, and the last law documents in Emor, wherever they might be hidden, would rot away and be forgotten. It touched Quentin-Andrew's professional pride, certainly, that for the first time in his career he might not succeed in breaking a prisoner, but this would mar neither his duty nor his pleasure. Dolan would die, and Quentin-Andrew would be the one to kill him. 

And all this, Quentin-Andrew thought in astonishment again, was in accordance with the will of the gods. The thought touched him lightly that perhaps he had been wrong in thinking that he would spend all eternity under the curse of the gods. Perhaps, after all, he could remain as he was and yet be granted the gods' mercy. 

It was the last time in his life that he would hold this hope.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Bard of Pain_ 2**  
**THE FIRE**  
  

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Quentin-Andrew was on fire. 

He had always feared fire the most. It had taken Randal half a day to realize this before he had taken hold of the brand with a smile – an apologetic smile, because the young torturer had not yet mastered Quentin-Andrew's technique of knowing immediately which instrument the prisoner most dreaded. Quentin-Andrew could feel the marks left by the brand, but that was not the fire that tormented him. This fire was inside: the fire of taut muscles, strained tissues, throbbing blood-tunnels – the fire most of all of a spirit that was stretched as tight as a lathe-reed, about to snap. 

Aside from the soft hiss of the cell's fire, Quentin-Andrew could hear nothing. Earlier, as the palace trumpets sounded the midnight call for the final time in Koretia's history, the rumble of fighting had filled the corridor, and at one point soldiers had hammered at the cell door. Randal had done nothing, though, except to place his hand firmly over Quentin-Andrew's mouth. The Northern Army soldiers had gone away, apparently unwilling to take the time to force the iron door. From that time on, all noise had faded until nothing filled the cell now except the sound of fire and iron and screams. Especially fire. 

Something cool touched Quentin-Andrew's eyelids: Randal's wet fingers, gently wiping away the blood that gummed his eyes shut. A moment later, Randal pried his eyelids open. It would have taken more strength than Quentin-Andrew possessed to free his eyelids from Randal's tender touch. He stared up at his torturer's face, dim in the growing shadows. A part of Quentin-Andrew that still lived and moved wondered whether the cell's fire was dead but for the coals or whether he was growing blind, as prisoners sometimes did toward the end. 

"The seventh weight," said Randal quietly. "You know what that means, Lieutenant. There is still time for you to speak before I destroy your body. For your spirit will break after the weight is added, you know." 

Quentin-Andrew did not doubt that Randal was right; he knew the signs himself. Already he could feel the fraying of the fibrous cord that linked his mind to sanity. One more weight . . . No, not even that; the break would come before the weight was ever applied. With detached interest, he watched the fire begin to eat into the slender strand. His body was screaming; his mouth no longer screamed only because he had no power with which to voice his agony. He took a shallow breath and felt a thousand daggers enter his body. 

With his last remaining strength, he closed his eyes. 

Above him, dimly through the darkness of the approaching madness, he heard Randal sigh. "Oh, Lieutenant," said his torturer softly, "I would so much have liked to have worked with you. Even to have been broken by you would have been a privilege." There was no sound for a moment, and then Quentin-Andrew heard a thump as Randal lifted the weight onto the table. Another moment before it would be attached; another moment before the thread snapped and what was left of Quentin-Andrew plummeted into a darkness so black that his spirit would be utterly destroyed. 

Not even the pit of destruction awaited him; only annihilation. The fire began to eat the final strand, and Quentin-Andrew felt his mouth open, felt himself prepare to give Randal the information he wanted. 

The words he spoke, though, caused his spirit to vibrate with shock. "Jackal," he whispered, "help me." 

Even the fire was gone now. He was entirely in blackness, and he wondered at what point the last portion of his spirit would crumble and he would cease to think. Then he felt something – an awareness, a presence – and he opened his eyes again. 

Before him, hovering in the darkness of the cell, was a wild beast: it was snarling at him, its claws tightening in anticipation, its mouth parted in a tooth-bladed smile. Though its fur was blacker than the shadows, a golden glow outlined its form. He could see that it was crouching, ready to pounce. 

Then the beast leapt suddenly high in the air, and in the instant before its forepaws landed upon Quentin-Andrew's chest, it flung its head upward, and its shape began to change. In a moment, the four-footed beast had acquired legs and arms; it stood upright, with claws still shining at the end of its hands. Only the beast's face remained the same. 

In a soft voice, a voice that thundered like a forest burning, the Jackal said, _"How dare you call upon my name, you who lie under my curse."_

Quentin-Andrew took a breath and felt the daggers begin to flay his flesh. The fire was now eating his organs. "For the Commander's sake," he whispered. "He is the gods' servant. Help me not to betray him." 

The Jackal continued to smile in his deadly manner. All around him, the fire leapt golden. In a soft voice, the voice a torturer uses when his victim is about to break, the Jackal said, "Eight years ago, the Commander murdered the Chara and placed his own wine-friend, the son of Perry-John, into your hands. Since that day, he has been under the gods' curse." 

For a moment more, the fire licked at Quentin-Andrew's flesh; he could feel it blackening his heart. Then Quentin-Andrew screamed. 

It was a long, hoarse scream that echoed in the far corners of the cell, a cry so deep and reverberant that it drove from Quentin-Andrew all awareness of the killing fire. It was followed by silence. Quentin-Andrew could see nothing and he could feel nothing; he was empty like a husk. In a second, he knew, the fire would return and his spirit would be forever obliterated, but just for the moment he felt only relief. 

It was over – all of his last hopes were mercifully gone. The worst torture was ended: the torment he had felt all his life of believing that he could change his fate if only he tried hard enough. Now he knew that he had been right on the day of Gareth's death. There was nothing he could do, no change he could make, that would bring the gods' mercy. From the day of his birth, he had been doomed to destruction. 

A light began to grow, and with it came warmth. Quentin-Andrew tensed, waiting for the final inferno. Then he became aware of the glow in front of him: the Jackal, with his hand outstretched. "Come," said the god. 

Quentin-Andrew dimly knew the choice he was being offered; it was a choice between two torments. But he did not give himself time to dwell on the balance. As though of its own volition, his hand moved forward. He flinched at the last moment, feeling the approaching heat, and then, with his breath shuddering, he clasped the Jackal's hand. 

In an instant, the light exploded silently around him. He could feel its warmth upon his skin. With a moan, he shielded his eyes, like a night animal that has been driven to the surface during the day. Then the light faded, and he found himself in darkness once more, except for a glow which seemed to emanate from no object except himself. 

It was a dark glow, a bleak grey against the blackness around him, but it caused him to look down at himself, and he felt his heart jerk. 

He could see his hands. He remembered with sickness what his hands had looked like a short time before; now his hands were whole and unmarked. His arms and his legs were as smooth as a babe's skin. The rest of his body he could not see, for it was covered in the uniform he had worn for so long: the undyed cloth of a Northern Army tunic and breeches, the gold honor brooch that the Commander had given him, the thick cloak meant to protect against Marcadian winters, and the hard boots that could travel through ice and snow. Only his thigh-pocket and his blades were missing. 

He swung around, the instinctive move of a patrol guard who has become lost in the night. To all sides, he was encased in darkness, but a body's length below his feet he began to see a figure: a man stretched taut upon a table, his eyes wide and unblinking, his naked body mangled and broken. The seventh weight was not yet attached. 

Quentin-Andrew turned his face slowly away. At his side, the god of death waited, the fire around him now brighter than before. In a flat voice, knowing the answer but requiring the words to be said, Quentin-Andrew asked, "What happens to the god-cursed after they die?" 

"Come and see," said the Jackal. He turned and began walking into the landscape of shadows. For a moment, Quentin-Andrew remained motionless; then he followed the beast's tawny back. 

o—o—o

They travelled over a flat land. The ground Quentin-Andrew could not see was hard under his boots. The sound of his steps was loud in the stillness but made no echo. He could not see where the horizon ended and where the sky began – the sky was without moon or stars. But he became aware that beyond the Jackal, hidden by the god's body, a light was beginning to grow. And then the light narrowed; it was a rectangular shape now, and Quentin-Andrew felt as though the darkness was narrowing in on him, squeezing his body. His breath had only a moment to quicken, and then he had passed through the rectangle of light. He found himself in a large chamber. 

The chamber was round, like the sun or the moon; it was deep, fringed by tiers of steps; and it was silent, but for the sound of one man speaking. To the south side of the chamber, brown-robed priests sat listening and nodding their heads occasionally. The north side was filled only by the speaker. He was young, and his face was younger still. His voice was almost too low to be heard, but he spoke quickly, and his eyes scanned the audience before him. 

". . . And then he sheathed his sword and he took me to the gate, and he told me who he was and told me to come here, to the House of the Unknowable God. He said that you would give me refuge against the Commander. And so I came here, and he must not have told the Commander what he did, because everyone thinks that I'm dead. But I'm alive. I shouldn't be, but I am." 

From where he now stood, in the center of the sanctuary, Quentin-Andrew turned to look up at the priests. Their bodies were motionless, and their faces were hard. From his position near the High Priest, Aiken leaned forward and said, "So he tortured you all night – and then spared your life. And you believe that act weighs more heavily than all else that he did during his lifetime." 

Dolan, wide-eyed, stared without comprehension at the priests for a moment, his hands crossed behind his back. "You don't understand," he said finally in a high voice. "The Lieutenant told me that the Jackal instructed him to follow the Commander's orders. And the Lieutenant wanted the curse to be lifted from him – he never told me that, but I _know_ he did. I think— I know it sounds mad, but I think the Lieutenant believed that, by disobeying the Commander's order to kill me, he was disobeying the gods. He must have thought that, by helping me, he was losing his last chance to be forgiven by the gods." Dolan's voice grew soft. "He did that for me. He was willing to dwell eternally in the pits of destruction for my sake." 

Quentin-Andrew heard the priests begin to murmur amongst themselves, but this time he did not move his gaze from Dolan. The boy – no, the man – was staring down at the stone tier, scuffing the floor with his right sandal. He was unarmed. Quentin-Andrew held his breath, waiting for the warmth to come that had always come, but nothing happened except that something brushed his arm. 

It was the High Priest, stepping past him. He was headed toward the eternal flame on the altar, and as he walked forward he said, "We who worship the Unknowable God have never claimed the right to weigh men's deeds and judge men's eternal sentences. That right belongs to the God alone. The only right we have claimed is to ask the God to place a man under his curse if, in our poor judgment, it appears to us that the man has made no effort at all to follow the gods." He gave a wry smile as he dipped his hand into the crystal bowl of water beside the flame. "Never before have we been asked to show a man mercy for doing that which he believed the gods would condemn. Nevertheless, Dolan, your witness matches that which we received today, telling of the manner in which Lieutenant Quentin-Andrew died. And so we must conclude from this that Quentin-Andrew, though filled with darkness which blinded him to the true consequences of his deeds, was indeed willing to make deep sacrifices for the sake of his fellow men, and we know this to be the sign of a god-lover. Therefore, High Judge above all judges, we ask that you take our wishes into consideration in judging Quentin-Andrew son of Quentin-Griffith, and we request that you wipe from his forehead the ashes of cursing that we placed there thirty-seven years ago." 

The Jackal, dipping his golden claws into the water held up by the High Priest, replied, "I am the god to whom the son of Quentin-Griffith pledged his loyalty as a child; I speak the words of the Unknowable God above all gods. In the name of that Mystery which none may see but those who dwell eternally in the City of the Land Beyond, I declare that the son of Quentin-Griffith has turned his face toward the gods, and in so doing has become and was and always will be a servant of the God who created him." As he spoke, his claws touched Quentin-Andrew's forehead, and Quentin-Andrew felt the warm water dissolve the grime that lay there. 

Silence filled the chamber like a fine mist. Quentin-Andrew stared at the golden eyes of the god, dancing with brightness like fire upon a death-pyre. The god's snarling smile did not change. He gestured with his hand, still sparkling with water. "Come," he said. 

Quentin-Andrew turned to follow; then he found himself whirling to look up at the tiered chamber once more. Behind him, the priests were beginning to murmur again. The sound of their feet as they walked down the steps echoed on the other side of the chamber, where young Dolan still stood. Dolan seemed unaware that the trial was over. He was staring at his feet, and the hair falling in front of his face did not obscure the smile on his lips or the dream-look in his eyes. 

Warmth touched Quentin-Andrew. He turned his head, and saw that the Jackal was standing beside him, shining like one of the torches upon the wall. The god was waiting. After a long moment, Quentin-Andrew asked, "What will happen to him?" 

The god lifted his face, like a dog that has scented its prey. "Does it matter?" he asked in his soft, thunderous voice. 

Quentin-Andrew looked back at Dolan. The young man had awoken from his dreamlike state, and he was moving slowly now toward the exit, cautiously, as though he feared that someone would notice him and stop him. He no longer wore the bright-bordered tunic of an army official that the Commander had given him; he was dressed all in brown, like a priest or an orphan-boy. 

"Yes," said Quentin-Andrew, his voice faint against the sound of the priests talking. "He is my wine-friend." 

The god's voice, though quiet, continued to fill the chamber above all other voices. "He will die, killed by the daggers of war that you helped to whet. Yet because you granted him eight years' respite from his execution, he has had time to pass on his secret to another. And that secret, carried through the long night, will one day be a sheath upon the blade of war and lawlessness. In this way, the gods have accepted and transformed the sacrifice of pain which the son of Perry-John offered to us in the Chara's dungeon." 

Dolan, still moving cautiously, had arrived at the bottom of the steps now. He walked slowly forward, past the priests who no longer watched him, until he had nearly reached where Quentin-Andrew stood with the god. He had kept his face bowed till now, but his eyes lifted suddenly and met Quentin-Andrew's. For the moment between lightning and thunder, Quentin-Andrew thought that the eyes held recognition. Then, still smiling, Dolan walked without hesitation into the fiery god. 

Light flared, as though someone had thrown tinder upon a bonfire. Quentin-Andrew thought he heard a sharp cry, but whether it came from Dolan or from himself he never knew. When his vision cleared, he found himself standing at the foot of a dark hillside, looking down upon a dry moat.  
  


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

A dry moat is what he thought he saw at first. It was hard to tell in starless darkness, though now a faint sheen of moonlight frosted the ground under the moonless sky. The moat itself, though, was darker than blackened blood, and a steady wind of icy air blew from it. Quentin-Andrew was standing at the lip of the moat. 

Then he looked harder and saw that the moat surrounding the hillside was in fact a series of long pits, each divided from the other by a wall of earth. Faintly now, he could hear sounds arising from the pits: gasps and moans and sobs and screams. He heard words too: curses and pleas and protests. And Quentin-Andrew knew, without lifting his eyes to look up the hillside behind him, where it was that he now stood. 

He turned his head. The god of death was waiting, his body dazzling in the blackness. Quentin-Andrew felt oddly calm, perhaps because he had anticipated this moment for so long. Yet still the question needed to be spoken. "Do you wish me to enter this pit?" he asked. 

"Do you wish to enter the pit?" the Jackal replied, his voice taking on the tone of a priest who is asking a ritual question. 

Quentin-Andrew turned his gaze once more toward the pit that lay at his feet. Moonlight was beginning to creep down its sides, which remained dark like the landscape surrounding Quentin-Andrew. Only the dullest shimmer of light revealed that the sides of the pit were composed of black ice. Deeper the moonlight crept, remorselessly slow, until Quentin-Andrew began to wonder whether the pit had any bottom. And then the light touched the floor of the pit, and Quentin-Andrew heard his own indrawn breath join the sounds arising from the pits nearby. 

At the bottom of the pit, bound loosely to the wall in glittering chains and manacles, was a tall man with reddish-white hair. He was alone, hunched over the dark ice on the ground; his face was hidden in his hands. It was a pose Quentin-Andrew had seen many times in other prisoners, and once again he expected the warmth to enter him, but it did not come. Nothing came except the cries of the tormented and the endless draft of cold. 

"Yes," Quentin-Andrew heard himself reply. "My service is unfinished." 

The creeping light reached the end of the pit nearest Quentin-Andrew, and as it did so, he saw a form take shape: steps leading down to the depths of the pit. He turned for a final look at the Jackal. His spirit hummed in anticipation, but his body was steady. 

"Enter, then, since it is your wish," said the god, "and leave again, since it is your wish. The pits hold only those who desire to stay there. All others, who have turned their faces toward the gods, may bring healing to the wounded, but no chains bind their spirits to this place." 

The light had now reached the mouth of the pit; it touched Quentin-Andrew and snuffed out. A glow remained in the air, however, and after a moment Quentin-Andrew realized that the dim light emanating from his body had grown bright enough to cast an aureola that pushed back the darkness around him. He took a deep breath, and without looking again at the Jackal, he placed his foot on the top step of the pit. Following the lamp of his own body, he made his way down the stairway, which had no bannisters. 

The noises from above dropped away as he travelled lower. The cold increased. Soon, every breath he sucked in stabbed at his lungs, and through his boots he could feel the numbing pain of the ice. The silence was deeper than death. After what seemed like a journey of many days, Quentin-Andrew reached the final step, and there he paused, blinded by the darkness beyond him. Further ahead, he could hear the sound of aching breath; he followed it, as he had once followed the men he trapped. And so, in the end, he found the Commander. 

o—o—o

The Commander of the Northern Army was just as he had been before: crouched on the ice, his hands folded over his face. Quentin-Andrew knew the other man from his hair and from the gold edging of his cloak, signifying his rank. Stopping a body's length away, he said, "Commander." 

The Commander raised his head at once and rose slowly to his feet. Though he stood within the dim light cast by his visitor, he stared with unseeing eyes in Quentin-Andrew's direction. "Lieutenant?" he said in a cautious voice. 

"Yes, sir." Quentin-Andrew found that his vision had sharpened, as it always did at such moments. He could see the throbbing blood-tunnel in the Commander's throat and the practiced stillness with which the Commander held his dagger-hand. The skin near the Commander's manacles was blue-white, and the Commander's lips were chapped and bleeding. 

"So they have captured you as well," said the Commander in a calm voice. "I feared the worst when you disappeared from the camp. Have they questioned you?" 

Quentin-Andrew paused a moment before answering; he was watching the Commander's eyes and gathering the information he needed. "Sir, why are you here?" 

The Commander sounded more hesitant than before. "I was captured, I suppose. We went into battle – you heard that? – and as we broke through the palace walls, I felt something hit my head. When I awoke, I was here." His voice grew more firm. "You didn't answer my question, Lieutenant." 

Quentin-Andrew walked forward and placed his dagger-hand in the Commander's. "I am well, sir," he said. 

The Commander briefly inspected with his fingers the unmarked hand and wrist before releasing Quentin-Andrew. "I'm glad of that," he said quietly. "Now that they have me in their hands, they won't bother you. They know that I have all the answers they need." His voice grew lower. "I have been trying to prepare myself for that." 

The dagger-pricks of coldness were beginning to dull Quentin-Andrew's mind. He shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts and asked, in a hard, precise manner that all too many men had known, "Who are 'they,' sir?" 

"The enemy, of course." The Commander's reply was immediate, with a note of surprise to it. "Those who are against us. The men who are destroying the Three Lands." 

Quentin-Andrew felt an easiness come over him then, as he always did in the moment when he learned which instrument would break the prisoner. Still he hesitated, wondering which of several paths to take to his destination. At that moment, a movement caught his eye. 

It came from the wall of the pit that glistened black under the light Quentin-Andrew cast: a faint color and movement, like the blue throb of a blood-tunnel that was sheathed by skin. Quentin-Andrew stepped over to the wall and wiped his hand across the face of the ice, feeling the coldness bite into his hand as he did so. Where his hand had passed, the opaque wall turned to clear crystal. Now he could see what lay beyond it. 

"Sir," he said in the respectful voice he used to lure his victims into unwariness, "will you come over to this window, please?" 

"Window?" The Commander's voice was uncertain. 

"Yes, sir; it's within a few steps of you. I think you'll find that your chains extend that far." 

Quentin-Andrew did not turn his head, but he heard the heavy clank as the Commander dragged his chains across the floor. A moment later, the Commander's arm brushed his, and Quentin-Andrew stepped aside to allow the Commander full view of the scene. 

After a minute, the Commander began to curse, steadily and with his usual restraint. "Those demons," he concluded. "Those heartless villains." 

"What are they doing, sir?" Quentin-Andrew knew better than to provide his own commentary. 

"Destroying a village. The men are imprisoned in a group – the enemy isn't allowing them to die quickly, the poor wretches. And the women and children— I cannot speak of it." He started to turn away, but Quentin-Andrew grasped his arm and held it fast. 

"What's happening now, sir?" 

The Commander sucked his breath in quickly. "How odd. I can see Capital Mountain now. I thought that this window looked out onto the north, and yet . . . No matter; the scene to the south is just as terrible. A bonfire is blazing, and the enemy is throwing objects onto it: books and harps and tapestries – everything that enriches the Three Lands." 

"I see." Quentin-Andrew's voice was colorless. "And is that all the enemy is doing?" 

"No, I— How odd, the window seems to point west now; I can see the setting sun. The enemy is destroying a law court. . . . Gods, if only I were free!" The Commander's arms tensed as he tightened his fists. "They are destroying everything civilized, everything the gods love." 

"I don't believe they are quite finished, sir," Quentin-Andrew said in a cool manner. "Can you tell me what the enemy is doing now?" 

After a moment, the Commander said in a weary voice, "We must be looking east; the landscape is night-laden. I can barely see— Yes, they are executing people. Law officials, bards who sing of the deeds of gods and men . . . The shapeless gods preserve us, they are even killing priests." The Commander's voice took on an edge. "When I leave here – and I _will_ leave here – the enemy will pay for this in blood. I will see that each man who has done this pays his debt, and the men who ordered it will pay the greatest debt of all. They will regret the day they were born. Do you understand, Lieutenant? I want you to help me to punish these men." 

"Certainly, sir," Quentin-Andrew said in a matter-of-fact manner. "Including you?" 

The Commander had begun to turn away from the window again. Now he stopped and said, "Lieutenant?" 

"You wish the men who did this to be punished. Shall I punish only our captains, or am I to punish you as well, sir?" 

"Lieutenant, what in the names of the nameless gods are you speaking of?" 

"Look again, sir; the enemy is destroying another village." 

"I already saw that, and I have said they will be punished—" 

"Look at their uniforms, sir." 

A silence, and then the Commander said in a tight voice, "Rogue troops. They exist in every war, but I had trusted that I had my men under better control than that. I see what you mean, Lieutenant. The captain who allowed this to happen will be punished for his men's deeds—" 

"No captain ordered this, sir; the order came from you. Have you forgotten the command you issued concerning villages that harbor fugitives?" 

The Commander remained silent for several seconds. From where Quentin-Andrew stood, he could see the Commander's face, which was lit by the colors cast from the scene beyond. "Yes," the Commander said slowly. "I needed to track down the leaders of the enemy, and some had taken refuge among the villagers. It was a harsh move but a necessary one. With the enemy alive, I could not protect the villages against them. One or two villages must be sacrificed in order that the others—" 

"Here is the bonfire again," said Quentin-Andrew. He could not tell whether the fire was in fact there, but he dared not allow the Commander to continue down the path he was taking. He knew from experience that the Commander could lose himself for days in his thoughts of the greater good. "What uniforms are the soldiers wearing?" 

The Commander's voice turned quiet. "Our uniforms. I remember now. I ordered the destruction of the law books and the other objects that recorded the past history of the Three Lands. It was a hard decision but a necessary one. The law has grown corrupt – it must be purged of its evil elements, cleansed of its dark past. I wish to bring Koretia and Emor and Daxis closer together, to take another step in creating a single law for the whole of the Great Peninsula—" 

"Yes, sir," said Quentin-Andrew. "Is that why you ordered the death of the priests?" 

"Of course," the Commander replied without hesitation. "Only the corrupt priests, the ones who had taken the side of the enemy. War is a terrible thing, Lieutenant; it brings the horrors of destruction and fear and torture. Little though I like having to treat men in such a way, it is necessary for the sake of peace. I want this war to be short; I want the Great Peninsula to lie in peace once more. With the enemy dead—" 

"I see." Quentin-Andrew allowed his voice to grow a shade colder, as it did when he was discussing matters with the Commander that entered into his own province. "Sir, who is the enemy?" 

The Commander's voice grew cool as well. "I have already answered that question, Lieutenant. Surely we have more important matters to discuss, such as how to find a way to escape here so that we can once more fight the enemy—" 

"I need to know for the sake of my work, sir." Quentin-Andrew's voice was now as cold as a long-buried bone. "Are the Emorians our enemy, sir?" 

"Certainly. They started this war by their oppression of the dominions." 

"And the Koretians, sir? And the Daxions?" 

"They opposed my attempts to bring Koretia under lawful rule once more. Of course," he added quickly, "once we have killed the true enemy – those who oppose me – the peaceful Koretians and Daxions and Emorians will have the opportunity to choose new rulers and to choose a new law. The shapeless gods know I will fully support any men who have the ability to bring about this rebirth, but until such men arrive, I cannot let the Three Lands suffer under the enemy—" 

"Is Dolan the enemy, sir?" 

The pause lasted very long this time. The colors at the window had grown dim; the Commander's face, which still faced that window, was flung into shadow. Quentin-Andrew could see its outline only by the faint mist emitted from the Commander's mouth. 

"That is not a name I wish to discuss." The Commander's voice was flat. "You know my wishes in that regard." 

"But sir, I cannot do my work without being certain who I should question. You gave Dolan into my hands—" 

"That is in the past." The Commander cut Quentin-Andrew short with a voice like a blade. "Dolan disobeyed orders, and he received the punishment I had promised upon any man who disobeyed me. It was a hard decision for me to make, but a necessary one, for the sake of the Three Lands—" 

"The Three Lands that are being destroyed by your soldiers, sir?" 

The moment he spoke, Quentin-Andrew knew that he had taken a misstep. It had happened before; he was not a god, and despite his reputation, he had made errors in his work. Always in the past, it had not mattered greatly. He was certain of his success in the end, for no man in the Three Lands could hold out against him. 

Except, perhaps, the man who had helped to make him what he was. 

"You said that it was a necessary decision," Quentin-Andrew added quickly, trying to retrace his steps. "Could you explain why to me, sir?" 

The Commander, though, was not listening. He had turned from the window and was staring at Quentin-Andrew with narrowed eyes, as though seeing him for the first time. He said quietly, "You are not chained." 

The Commander's quiet voice had deceived many a man before. Quentin-Andrew, who had heard the Commander use that voice on the night of Dolan's torture, remained silent and waited. 

The Commander took a step back and ran his gaze down Quentin-Andrew's untouched uniform and his unmarked body. When his eyes rose again, they glittered like the dark ice surrounding him. 

"I see," he said with bitter frigidity. "I should have guessed that the enemy would take this course. You are the only man who has stood beside me through it all, the only man left whom I could trust. Why should the enemy torment you when they could offer me greater torment by taking you from me? What did they give you, Lieutenant, to make you desire to come here and speak their words?" 

"Sir—" 

_"Leave me at peace!"_ The voice was thunderous, with only a slight break at the end. Iron rattled as the Commander thrust his fists forward, but the chains held him fast. Quentin-Andrew, who had automatically calculated the length of the chains from the moment he first sighted the Commander, remained where he was, unmoved. He noted that the Commander's face was as dark now as the ice in the pit or as the starless sky above. 

"Leave me before I kill you." The Commander's final words were spoken in a grim whisper. The chains clanked as the Commander turned his back and made his way to the corner where he had crouched before. 

Quentin-Andrew stood awhile, regarding him. The Commander's hunched body was now beyond most of the light that Quentin-Andrew cast. His appearance was like that of dark rock or of a dead beast. After a time, Quentin-Andrew turned and stepped over to the window. 

The events had continued to unfold during the period since he had been there last. Darkness had fallen; now he could only catch sight of the figures outside through moonlight and starlight and the occasional flare of a torch. He saw men and women and children falling back under the onslaught of the leaderless troops, and he saw what happened when they failed to escape. He saw the troops, still restless after their bloodlust, turn against each other, while the captains strove without success to keep order. He saw the captains slaughtered. He saw the cities lying in ruins – not only Koretia's capital, but also Daxis's and Emor's – and he saw the gradual abandonment of the towns as trade grew more precarious and it became necessary to live close to the land. He saw the burnt crops of farmers and the strong bands of huntsmen that arose. He saw what they hunted. 

Watching the dim scene, Quentin-Andrew felt the coldness encase his legs and make its way up his loins. He wondered how long it would be before the ice chained him to this place. He wondered also how much time had passed in the Land of the Living. Had centuries slipped away while he stood motionless and silent and essentially alone? Or had he been granted the vision of a god, to see the future that would take place? Or was there in fact any time at all in this place? 

The cold travelled further; soon it would reach his heart. Reluctantly, Quentin-Andrew stirred himself, turning away from the window. As he did so, he heard a soft sound. It came from the Commander. 

Quentin-Andrew could not be sure how much time passed as he remained where he was, watching the quivering rock and listening to the sounds it made. He did not move forward; all of his training told him not to. Yet he felt oddly empty, watching the gradual splitting of the rock's spirit. This moment, which had always brought him great warmth, seemed cold and hard and lifeless. 

The sounds stopped finally; only the quivering continued. Quentin-Andrew was shivering as well. He could barely feel his own hands and arms, which were wrapped tight against his chest. It was becoming hard to remember now why he had come here, and the temptation to lie down on the ground was overwhelming. Then his head lifted, sensing a change; and a moment later the rock unfolded and became a man again. 

Under the dim light of where he half-crouched, the Commander's face shone like the moon; it was encased with ice. His eyes, dark like winter leaves, stared blankly forward. His lips opened a small gap as he whispered, "Lieutenant." 

"Yes, sir." Quentin-Andrew did not move from where he stood. "I am still here." 

The Commander shuffled forward, weighted down by the chains and by the frozen mask upon his face. His body glimmered with frigid moisture. In a hollow voice, the Commander asked, "Why did you betray me, Lieutenant?" 

"I didn't betray you, sir." Quentin-Andrew spoke in a flat voice. "I died rather than betray you." 

"You—" 

The Commander stopped. He tilted his head, looking up at the unending blackness above him, and then down at Quentin-Andrew, standing unarmed and glowing softly, like a shining fish in the dark sea. The pit was utterly silent, but for the sound of the two men breathing. Even the wind scything their skin made no noise. 

"You are saying that you are dead," said the Commander in a changed voice. 

"Yes, sir." 

The Commander raised his hands and looked down at them. The ice on them was nearly as thick as the manacles now, but it was clear, and through them it could be seen that the Commander's skin was smooth and unscarred. 

"You are saying that we are both dead." The Commander's voice was once more even and quiet. "I was not captured by the enemy; I died in battle." 

This time Quentin-Andrew did not bother to reply. The Commander turned slowly in a circle, his gaze taking in the dark ice that shadowed him. He reached out and touched the wall of the pit tentatively, then snatched his hand back. 

"And this . . ." he said slowly. "This is one of the ice prisons at the end of the world, where the enemies of the silent gods are punished." 

Again Quentin-Andrew did not speak. He could feel the ice beginning to encase his body, and he wondered how long it would be before he was bound in the pit by the coldness, unable to move or think but still able to feel the heavy ice cutting through his skin. He resisted the impulse to take a step backwards. One of the few virtues Quentin-Andrew possessed, as his employers could have attested, was that he had never left a job unfinished, no matter what the cost to him. 

"This makes no sense." The Commander's voice wavered. "How could the gods punish me? What I did in the war, I did for their sake, to bring peace. War is evil – I always said that – but I had no choice in my methods. My enemies forced me—" 

"Come to the window, sir." For the first time, Quentin-Andrew's voice sharpened. He had reached the stage he knew well, where time was all-important. Not waiting for the Commander to respond, he reached forward, grasped the Commander's icy arm, and thrust him toward the window. 

Time, it seemed, was going backward. Quentin-Andrew could now see the scenes he had witnessed before – the wide arc of destruction growing narrow and yet more narrow, until it began to center on its origins: particular places, particular acts, particular men. The Great Peninsula no longer held any trade routes; this was due to the greediness of the Commander's troops, who plundered the goods of merchants. The Great Peninsula no longer possessed ambassadors or peace treaties; this was due to a peace oath that had been broken long ago by one of the Commander's emissaries. The Great Peninsula no longer contained mighty men and women, capable of upholding the law; their graves could be seen, or in some cases simply their bodies, when the Commander had not bothered to order their burial. 

For one brief moment, a corpse flashed by: a young man, his head crushed and bloody, his eyes wide and unblinking. Quentin-Andrew felt his breath jerk in. A flame of pain passed through his whole body that melted the ice forming upon his skin. At the same moment, the wind shattered the scene before him, and the pit was once more dark except for the light from Quentin-Andrew's body. 

Quentin-Andrew looked over at the Commander. He was on his knees, hiding his eyes; he had not witnessed the final scene. "I had no choice," he whispered. 

"No choice, sir?" Quentin-Andrew allowed his voice to take on a note of scorn. "You had no choice but to do what you did – is that what you are saying?" 

He waited. With any other man, he would have supplied the answer, but the Commander was capable of doing so on his own. 

The Commander's response was a long time in coming. Quentin-Andrew, shivering, wondered how many centuries were passing by. Finally the Commander said in a broken voice, "I could have retreated. I need not have continued the war. But if I had done that – if I had let Koretia exist under rulerless anarchy or if I had let Emor continue under a tyrant . . ." 

"They would have been worse off than under your protection." 

This time Quentin-Andrew needed do no more than make the statement. No scorn was necessary, nor any hidden irony. For a moment more – how many years the moment encompassed Quentin-Andrew could not tell – the Commander remained motionless. 

Then his hands dropped. He stared unseeing at the scene before him, the scales of ice now beginning to travel over his eyes. He whispered, "Dolan." 

Quentin-Andrew did not speak. He was waiting for the heat to come that always came at such moments, like a sun warming a ripening field, or a hearth-fire blanketing the room with its light. He waited, and then he realized, with a grief that cut through to his very bones, that the warmth would not come. It was gone forever, the only pleasure that the gods had ever allowed him during his dark life; even that they had taken from him now. 

He might have fallen to his knees and joined the Commander in his captivity. What saved him was his professional pride. He had never left a job unfinished, and though the job was finished by his old standards, he knew that his new employer had higher standards. He said in a level voice, as though nothing had passed through his spirit during the past moments, "Sir?" 

"I destroyed him," the Commander whispered. Then, rising slowly to his feet, he looked over at Quentin-Andrew with a face like a man who has seen his death-shadow. "I destroyed them all. I destroyed the Three Lands." 

"We both did, sir." It was always safest to be sure in these cases that the prisoner had no route of escape left. "We murdered the Three Lands while their people begged for mercy." 

It was then that the Commander did what no man in Quentin-Andrew's hands had ever done – and yet what he did was of no surprise to the Lieutenant. The very qualities that had made the Commander hold out so long against Quentin-Andrew were the same qualities that had caused his soldiers to follow him through sixteen years of warfare. It was inevitable that the Commander's strength would break through in the end, no matter what the cost to himself. Though at this stage the Commander should not have been able to think of anything but the inner pain he was undergoing, he instead turned his mind to a greater concern. 

The Commander's gaze took in Quentin-Andrew. He said, "You are not chained." 

Quentin-Andrew shook his head. The Commander added quietly, "I am glad of that. Your deeds were done under my command – it is right that I should suffer for them rather than you." He let out a breath, and then said steadfastly, "Thank you for visiting me here, Lieutenant. I see that the gods sent you to open my eyes to my crimes, and I truly appreciate your willingness to serve them in that way. Now you must go, however. While I enjoy your company. . ." His voice wavered for only a moment before he regained control of it. "It is not right for you to stay here any longer than you must. I thank you again for coming; farewell." 

He tried to turn away immediately. Quentin-Andrew, seeing the shadow of change in his face, knew why, but in any case the Commander's intentions were frustrated by his chains, which wrapped themselves around his body and held him tight. The Commander began to emit a soft plea to the gods and then fell silent as he remembered where he was. 

"Allow me, sir." Quentin-Andrew reached out and tried to ignore the piercing pain as he took hold of the Commander's frozen hand. Under the dim light of Quentin-Andrew's body, the ice encasing the Commander's hand melted immediately. The icy manacle around the wrist remained intact a moment more before a crack could be heard, and the shackle fell to the ground, shattered. 

"I forgot," said the Commander. "This is your profession." 

Quentin-Andrew heard the note in the Commander's voice, glanced at his face, and then turned his attention to the other hand. After a moment, the second manacle fell to the ground, and the Commander's hands were free. Quentin-Andrew knelt by his feet. 

"You need not be afraid to tell me, Lieutenant." The Commander's voice was very quiet. "Did the gods send you here to torture me?" 

Quentin-Andrew began to speak, and then waited until he had freed both feet, before rising and saying, "The time for breaking is over, Commander; now is the time for mending. I have come to take you from this place." 

"No!" The Commander's swift response was filled with passion. "I must remain in this prison. I destroyed the Three Lands; there can be no forgiveness for what I have done—" 

"I see." Quentin-Andrew's voice turned dry. "Is that what you wish me to tell the gods, sir?" 

After a long while, the Commander said quietly, "You were always skilled at your trade, Lieutenant. I take your meaning; it is not for me to determine the length of my sentence. You are sure that the gods wish this?" 

"Yes, sir. I was sent here for that purpose." 

The Commander drew a deep breath, allowing the biting air to fill his lungs. He nodded slowly. "Then show me the way from here. I will follow the gods' will."


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

They travelled over the slick ice cautiously, Quentin-Andrew calling upon his patrol senses to tell him when he and the Commander would reach the stairway. Yet even before the soft glow of his body touched the wall, he knew that the stairs were gone. He tilted his head to look up the side of the pit. The wall was jagged, and when he put out his hand to touch the cold blackness, the ice that burned under his hand was unyielding. 

The Commander was silent behind him, waiting. Quentin-Andrew said, in the same matter-of-fact tone he used when ordering the flaying of prisoners, "We will have to climb from this point, sir. Do you think you can manage that?" 

"I'm from Marcadia, Lieutenant." For the first time, a note of humor appeared in the Commander's voice, as unexpected as a crocus breaking through the snow. "The question is rather whether you can climb from here." 

"Yes, sir," said Quentin-Andrew as he shrugged out from his cloak and reached up to take hold of a solid spar of ice. "I spent much of my childhood climbing in the black border mountains." He pulled himself up, but not before he heard the indrawn breath of the Commander. Never before had Quentin-Andrew spoken to the Commander of his past. 

They climbed slowly, the Commander still weighed down by the remaining ice on his body. The silent winds clutched at their bodies, threatening to throw them to the bottom of the pit, and pieces of ice occasionally crumbled under their hands and feet. Once, only Quentin-Andrew's hand, reaching down abruptly, kept the Commander from sliding down the pit wall. Quentin-Andrew wondered then what their fate would be if they fell – an eternity enduring the pain of a broken back, perhaps? In this place, they would not receive the mercy of oblivion. 

The ice continued to burn under Quentin-Andrew's hands. Each breath he took caused his chest to ache from air filled with slivers of ice. Quentin-Andrew began to feel his legs shake, and he hugged the wall closer as he tilted his head. Though no stars filled the sky, he could see the glow around the edge of the pit, as he had seen it in the moments before they began to climb. It appeared no nearer than it had been when they had started climbing an hour before. 

The Commander, a body's length further down than Quentin-Andrew, asked breathlessly, "How far have we to go?" 

"Not far, sir," said Quentin-Andrew, trying fruitlessly to sight the bottom of the pit. "We'll be there soon." 

His voice, the other torturers of the Three Lands had often noted with envy, was capable of conveying the blackest deceit without effort. The Commander, though, was silent a moment before saying, "We're no closer than before, are we?" 

Quentin-Andrew leaned his head back to look again at the elusive lip of the pit. "No, sir. We don't seem to be making any progress." 

The Commander's sigh was so heavy that it seemed to drop immediately to the bottom of the pit. "I feared as much. Lieutenant, you must go on without me. I'm sure that my presence alone is preventing you from leaving this prison." 

Feeling his raw hands scream as he placed them into new positions, Quentin-Andrew carefully climbed down until he was beside the Commander once more. "Sir, close your eyes." 

The Commander stared at him for a long minute from under frost-laden lashes, and then followed the instruction. 

"Sir, above us is the place where the gods gather." Quentin-Andrew paused, probing his memory for his faint knowledge of the Marcadian religion, then added, "It is the place where all names are known, all silence is spoken, and all that is hidden revealed. In that place is Dolan. He is waiting for you." 

He spoke the words firmly, having no doubt that what he stated was true. The Commander's breath quickened. In a shaking voice, he said, "That cannot be. I placed Dolan in your hands; I ordered his execution—" 

"Sir, I speak of _Dolan_." 

A pause while Quentin-Andrew's hands continued to scream as though they had been flayed open. And then the Commander said, with pure simplicity, "Yes, of course. Dolan is waiting for me." 

"Open your eyes, sir." 

The Commander did so, and Quentin-Andrew heard the small shock as the Commander's breath hissed in. "Yes," said the Commander slowly, his head tilted back to look upward. "Yes, of course." Then, in the firm voice he had always used before battles: "Follow me, Lieutenant. It is not far now." 

His words were of strict truth: the remaining journey was not far, at least not for a man being tugged forward by visions of what awaited him. For Quentin-Andrew, who had no love drawing him upward, it was like the time he had found himself caught alone in a blizzard on the mainland and had been forced to crawl through the flesh-cutting ice missiles for several hours until he reached his destination. On that occasion, his incentive for continuing was knowledge of an unfulfilled work contract. Now he found his gaze dropping downward, to the still chill of the ground below. 

The jagged ice was beginning to cut into his hands, slicing deep toward the bone. He closed his eyes and clung to the rock, shuddering. Then a hand took his, pulling at him, and all of a moment he was on flat ground again, with the ice replaced by burning heat. 

It stunned his eyes open. He was standing where he had begun, on the lip of the pit, but the cool air above the pits seemed like fire compared to what he had felt during the time he had been away. Instinctively, like a prisoner facing the brand, he wrapped his arms around himself. Then he turned his head, wondering how his northern-born Commander was enduring the change. 

The Commander seemed unaware of any pain he was experiencing. His gaze was raised high, up the slope of the steep mount they faced, toward the edge of the plateau above, where the Jackal stood, glowing brightly like a hearth-fire. 

"Commander . . ." Quentin-Andrew murmured. 

"Yes, I see." The Commander's voice was as matter-of-fact as it had always been when his Lieutenant issued warnings of grave danger, but there was a note of awe in his voice that Quentin-Andrew had never heard before. "That is one of the gods, nameless except in the place where names are known, shapeless except to the eyes of those who have received her mercy." 

Quentin-Andrew stared at the Commander, whose gaze had not broken from the figure standing above them, and then he felt the fiery warmth broken by a shiver through his body as he wondered what the Marcadian was seeing that Quentin-Andrew himself could not see. 

He did not receive the opportunity to ask. Without looking his way, the Commander said, "I must go forward alone from this point, Lieutenant." 

Quentin-Andrew looked up at the figure. All around the god, the air wavered, as on a summer's day. "It may be difficult, sir," he said. "I believe it is warmer up there—" 

"I cannot wait." And with that, the Commander slipped away, taking his first step onto the hill. 

His face was twisted with pain from the moment he touched the dark slope. Quentin-Andrew, shading his eyes against the brightness above, watched the Commander struggle his way upward, as though he were fighting through a fierce wind. At one point, the Commander slipped on the slope and slid nearly to the foot of the mount. He lay sprawled for a moment, his back heaving as he gasped in air. Then, before Quentin-Andrew could decide whether to move forward, he heard the Commander whisper, "Dolan," and the Commander was on his feet again, battling his way through the haze of the heat. 

The light had increased by the time he reached the plateau. Quentin-Andrew, squinting, could not look directly upon the figure awaiting the Commander, but even so, he was nearly blinded in the next moment as a blast of light travelled forth, like a wave of hard earth from where a catapult-flung stone has fallen. It cut through all of Quentin-Andrew's senses, causing him to cry out as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

When finally he looked again, the whole of the landscape had changed. It was covered now with a dim, pre-dawn glow, so that Quentin-Andrew could see the faint outline of grass upon the slope, dancing slightly in the warmth's haze. 

The glowing figure still stood on the ledge above, but it was alone now, and as Quentin-Andrew raised his eyes, he realized that it was not the god he saw. 

The figure smiled down at him. He was as Quentin-Andrew had seen him only once during their years together: when the Lieutenant, unannounced, walked in upon the Commander while the Marcadian was immersed in conversation with Dolan. Here once more were the eyes of love, drinking deeply, but the gaze had spread beyond the young Koretian to a wider horizon. 

In a voice deep and soft, which carried over the landscape to the horizon, the Commander said, "Thank you, Quentin-Andrew." 

And then he was gone, but the light remained, glowing from some object on the plateau that was beyond Quentin-Andrew's sight. 

o—o—o

Quentin-Andrew stared at the mount before him. It looked familiar, though he could not pin to the ground the memory of where he had seen it. It remained too dark as yet for him to gain any more impression of the hill than its massive shape looming above him. Nor could he see the surrounding landscape, though he was beginning to realize that it was not as flat as he had thought. To the west of him . . . 

He frowned. Why was he so sure that the land to the left of him was the west? Perhaps it was due to the shining light he sensed to the right of him. He turned his head. 

The Jackal sat beside him. He had dimmed since Quentin-Andrew had last seen him, which meant that he was no brighter than the sun. His coat was burnished gold and his face was black, but for the gold and silver that picked out his features. He was sitting on his haunches. He turned his head, and Quentin-Andrew saw once more the sharp teeth, smiling at him. 

The Jackal said nothing. He simply sat there, grinning wolf-like, as his fur burned in the grey darkness. 

Quentin-Andrew said, "Dolan . . . and the Commander . . . and against them, all the others who have fallen into my hands . . ." He stopped, unable to put into words his question. 

The god's smile did not waver. Sitting with his clawed paws digging into the ground, the Jackal was as tall as Quentin-Andrew was standing; the god's gaze was level with his own. The words he spoke, when they came, were not delivered from the mouth of a wild dog. Rather, they entered into Quentin-Andrew's spirit by some secret gate. 

"You wish to know whether the tales are true," the Jackal said. "You wish to know whether you must suffer for what you have been." 

Quentin-Andrew did not speak. The land around him was utterly still, but for the waving of the grass under the silent wind. Even the cries of the people in the pits had faded from his consciousness. 

"The tales are true," the god said softly. "For men who are truly evil, the fire is long and the pain beyond that which the greatest torturer in the world could produce. That is the fire you must endure to be purged of your darkness. Do you wish it?" 

He continued to glow like a furnace. Quentin-Andrew could now see that what he had thought were strands of fur were in fact licks of flame, reaching outward. They danced like the grass. 

He turned his head slowly. Behind him, as before, were the dark pits. He could see the ice on the lip of the nearest pit, and he remembered the coolness there. His time in the pit had seemed bitterly cold, but surely, after a few thousand years, one would grow numb to it. Better the ice than the fire; better that he should remain alone— 

And then he felt the shock enter him, as though lightning had attacked his body. Alone. Figuratively, he had been alone nearly all his life, but that had only been an image. How could a man such as himself ply his trade if he were truly alone? 

His thoughts skittered suddenly, sliding on ice. Ply his trade in a place like this? And yet he had done so once already. He thought back to the pits, dark and frigid. Places of imprisonment, as the Blue Tent had once been. Places of imprisonment and breaking. . . . 

He saw it then, as though the image had been within him all along. A Commander who broke prisoners, not through his own skills, but through the skills of those he sent out to do his work. From the warmth of the Commander's hut, a Lieutenant departed, set upon the task of going to the frigid outskirts of the camp in order to break a prisoner and hear that prisoner speak with sincerity the words of healing that the Commander wished him to say. . . . 

But the Lieutenant could not do this, if he himself were a prisoner. 

He turned his head back to the god, yet more slowly, the fire filling his gaze once again. The god was smiling with mouth and eyes, as he had on the day when Quentin-Andrew had stood in his royal bedchamber and spoken the words that would allow the Jackal to break him. 

"I am skilled at my work," Quentin-Andrew repeated now. And then, "I will not give up my work." And then, answering the Jackal's final question: "Yes." 

In that instant, his knees gave way, and he felt the ground bite his shins. 

His hands were over his eyes before that happened, but his palms could not shield him from sight of the blaze. He could feel the warmth of the fire as well, pricking at his body, and he smelt the thick smoke. He waited, tense, as the sweat swam upon his skin, uselessly trying to hold back the heat. 

No sharper bite entered him, and after a while it occurred to him that he had not reached out to touch the Jackal, as custom required. He opened his eyes cautiously— 

—and saw that the fire was not next to him. It was below him. 

It danced in a ring several spear-lengths below where he knelt; it surrounded two figures. The older of the two, who was standing, was in mid-youth. He held a cup in his hand, which he was heating over a tiny fire. The flame leapt up to meet the cup, which was bejewelled and made of gold. Pure as the gold was, it was unmarked by the flames touching it, but within the cup – Quentin-Andrew could see from where he knelt – was blood-red liquid that was beginning to boil. 

The boy holding the cup had his hand wrapped in a cloth to protect himself from the heat. He had been bending over to look at the bubbling wine, but now he raised the cup, apparently to admire the sight of the wine-bubbles springing over the rim. He was smiling. 

He did not seem to notice the ring of fire around him, nor did he look at the boy beside him. This younger boy was lying upon the stone table that held the flame. Near his head was a bowl that had once held water but had been tipped over. He was gagged, and was bound in a ball. His eyes, filled with tears and terror, were watching the progress of the cup. 

The older boy, still smiling, looked over at his prisoner and laughed lightly. It was a joyful laugh, bubbling like the wine. With deliberate slowness, he brought the cup over until it was above the younger boy. He began to tilt it. 

At that moment, Quentin-Andrew, whose body had been beating with blood all this while, saw something happen that made him rub his eyes, in case his vision had been damaged. The older boy, in the instant of the tilting, split in two. 

The split was not entire: the dark boy, standing smiling, remained where he was, attached to a version of the boy whose brown-black skin glowed like coal-fire. The glowing version of the boy had turned away and was trying desperately to break free, but at the moment upon which it seemed that he would either free himself or drag the dark boy away with him, he sighted the ring of fire dancing silently before him. He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the fire eating the air, and that motionlessness was his undoing: in the next second, he was pulled back into the dark boy. The boiling wine began to spill— 

—and then the scene was gone, and in place of it was another, with an imprisoned young man and an older man standing beside him. The torturer this time was not smiling. It was the young man who smiled, and his smile was for the torturer. 

Beside the torturer, kneeling and sobbing, was the glowing figure that Quentin-Andrew had seen before. It had pulled itself far enough away that it was now touching the surrounding ring of fire. The flames ate at the glowing figure, racking its body. With a final sob, the glowing version of the older man allowed himself to be pulled back into the darkness. 

And then came a series of images, so rapid that Quentin-Andrew could only follow the summation of them: more attempts at separation, more torture, and each time the tortured figure returned to the cool of the darkness, but each time the torture was longer and more painful. The dark version of the torturer continued his work, oblivious to how closely the fire was approaching. 

The fire finally reached him. He lay stretched upon a table, united in his two parts, as the fire of his self-selected torment filled his body. Amidst the flames, he cried out a name, calling upon the fire to enter him. 

At the sound of the god's name, a young man standing nearby turned his head, shock written upon his face at the words he had been sure his mentor would never speak. The fire crept closer to the torturer— 

—and in the same moment, the prisoner reached out his hand and entered into the heart of the harsh fire. 

"No," Quentin-Andrew heard himself say aloud. "No, it wasn't like that. When I touched you, there was no fire. I felt no pain, only light . . ." 

In the cell he had left behind, the fire was gone. All that remained was a broken figure on a table, covered with a dark cloak, and beside it the young man, his fists tight as he stared down at the fruits of his work. The young man's chest was heaving. He turned away abruptly and started toward the door of the cell. Then he seemed to become aware that he was holding something. He stared down blankly at the thin blade, and his finger touched a drop of blood that had dried near the hilt. His face contorting in fury, he flung the thigh-dagger away and left the cell, unarmed. 

The dagger, spinning through the air, soared over the corpse and landed in the dying coals. Flames sprung up at once, invading the cell, chasing after the figure that had left. The fire filled the air like flood-waters, and Quentin-Andrew heard himself cry out— 

And then it was gone. Everything he had seen was gone, but for the dark landscape, which was now filled with light. 

He knew this landscape. 

From where he stood, under the shadow of a cloud, he could see spring-green fields and black mountains beyond them. At the feet of the mountains were dark shapes that he might have taken for tiny villages if he had not known better. All of the land before him was dancing in the heat of the risen sun, blurring and stretching, as fabric does when pulled. 

But this tugging – this foreshadowing of a rending – was not due to the heat. Looking down from the top of the mount upon the landscape of his childhood, Quentin-Andrew knew that every image he had experienced since his death had been an illusion. The gods had taken images from his childhood vision of what the Land of the Dead would be like, and had used those images as a way to reveal the truth. As far as they went, the images had been true. But now Quentin-Andrew was about to be shown the deeper truth that lay within the vision. 

The heat of the day pressed behind him, like the sun riding the northern sky. But he knew that the heat did not come from the sun. In a panic, he spun round. 

The illusion had not broken there. Before him lay the City of the Gods. 

It was just as he had imagined it as a boy, staring up each night at the walled palace where the Chara lived: light shone forth from the marble-white building, brighter even than the reflected light that had burned from the Chara's palace until the Northern Army's attack doused that flame. The palace before him seemed to dance like a living flame, and all the air was growing brighter by the moment, as though the fire of the palace were filling the world around him. 

Below the white heart of the flame were streets lined with neat houses, all wavering in the light as the illusion strove to keep intact in these final moments. Standing on the golden streets was an enormous group of men and women. They were silent, watching him. 

His hand moved in an automatic manner toward his thigh; then he remembered that he was no longer armed. He scanned the crowd slowly, trying to read the people's intent from their expressions. With a jolt of blood through his body, he recognized one of the men. He looked at the woman nearest the man; he recognized her too. 

One by one, he began to make out the faces. They were all here – all the thousands of men and women he had murdered during his life. And standing at the front of the crowd, with his arms outstretched in welcome, was Gareth. 

The whiteness of the palace coalesced into a ball of light, spreading its warmth in the manner of a spring sun. Wordlessly, the light spoke to him, saying, "Here is the fire you feared, son of Quentin-Griffith. Enter into my City." 

Still standing in the cool darkness surrounding his body, Quentin-Andrew tentatively put forward his hand until it touched the light beyond the darkness. A sharp pain flashed through his body, more exquisite than he had ever known, as the fire burned out the last of the remaining darkness within him. Then it was gone, and nothing lay within except warmth. 

Smiling, he stepped into the light. 

And that was the end of the beginning for Quentin-Andrew.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Beta readers:_ [K. M. Frontain](https://kmfrontain.wordpress.com) and [Maureen Lycaon](http://maureenlycaon-dw.dreamwidth.org/).
> 
> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#bardofpain).
> 
> This story was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com). Copyright © 2002, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2012, 2014, 2017 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The story is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0) (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0). You may freely print, post, e-mail, share, or otherwise distribute the text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The [author's policies on derivative works and fan works](http://duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm) are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm). This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.


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